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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23389981">prison (how to not be there)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/caermit67/pseuds/caermit67'>caermit67</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Canon, Character Growth, Character Study, Modern Character in Skyrim, Self-Worth Issues, Worldbuilding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:48:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>31,633</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23389981</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/caermit67/pseuds/caermit67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only so many days you can go without killing yourself when your body is falling apart at the seams. Except you didn't kill yourself, you're alive and you're in skyrim. And you're naked. You should probably fix that. </p><p>(aka Modern Boy trapped in Skyrim ft. depression)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>trigger warning for suicide btw if the summary did not sufficiently imply that</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was sunrise. </p><p>His blinds had shifted, sometime overnight, and for the first time in three days, he could see the sun. It crept through his cramped bedroom, spilling cold, harsh light over the mounds of kleenex, dirty clothes, empty chip bags and wrappers, beer cans, delivery receipts. The piles of dishes on his dresser glinted off the morning light, and yet it sent a shiver down his spine - either that, or the withdrawal did. He was shaking regardless, trembling every so slightly in his damp, filthy bedsheets. His muscles ached from it, and the atrophy. </p><p>It was simply pathetic. </p><p>He hadn’t brushed his teeth in months. He hadn’t brushed his hair in weeks. The last time he’d showered was when he’d last thrown up, desperately scrubbing at his skin, trying to get off the film of filth that never left his skin. </p><p>His mouse hand ached. His keyboard was sticky, and coated in crumbs. </p><p>On the screen, the flame atronach he’d summoned spun in circles, caught clipped through the top stair of the dwarven ruins he was exploring. </p><p>He acknowledged to himself, here in this moment, that the amount of hours he’d logged into skyrim was pretty lame. </p><p>It wasn’t like he was an expert in the game, or anything - hell, being an expert in anything would be more impressive, but he barely had the motivation to open another bag of chips these days, let alone think that hard about anything - but he didn’t really do anything else. If he wasn’t playing skyrim, he was watching youtube guides for quests he’d already played ten thousand times, or TheEpicNate315’s latest 10 tiny details you might have missed. </p><p>He zoned out hours at a time, often, just making new characters and playing through the main quest, exactly the same way, every time. He would dive down TES wiki rabbit holes when he felt a little more invigorated, devouring new information about pointless npcs with three lines of dialogue like a man dying of thirst (which he probably was, he can’t remember the last time he drank water).</p><p>His memory was kinda shot to shit, and he didn’t really understand all the min-maxing stats, level 100 no cheats, completionist type of gameplay. But he’d done most everything the Skyrim world had to offer, and the things he’d liked the most he’d done at least twice. </p><p>He doesn’t understand why he reaches for his meds today, out of all days. Why one glitch was the final straw. But he doesn’t understand a lot of what happens to him these days. </p><p>It was easier than anything to unscrew the cap of the bottle of prescription strength naproxen he had on his bedside, take out the first four, and wash them down with a shot. Easier than texting back, easier than eating, easier than breathing. He kept a bottle of fireball on his floor, under his head, for the nights when nightmares wouldn’t keep out of the waking hours. </p><p>The second four went down just as smooth, but the fireball burned. The warmth spreading in his stomach was the closest thing to an emotion he’d felt in a very long time, and the spice on his tongue made him giggle. His lips split from the smile, they were so cracked and dehydrated. The third shot was fun, but the four shot started to hurt, and then there were still so many pills left so he shoved as many of them in his mouth as possible and swallowed but it hurt, hurt, hurt and GOD why did he do that. He fucked up so he rolled over and closed his eyes, sleep was so close for once usually it took so long to sleep but it was right there, he felt the warmth of the sun on his back and he smiled, and he smiled, and he smiled. </p><p>He had broken the cycle. He was free. </p><p>--</p><p>The prisoner slowly blinks awake to the feeling of stone beneath his bare feet. The space between his arm and his head is empty, there is no longer a pillow cradled there, and in fact there’s no longer a blanket on top of him either. Or a mattress beneath him.</p><p>His neck feels pinched and throbs in protest against it’s uncomfortable position. He sits up on his elbows to roll it around back and forth a bit. Blinking against the harsh light, trying to find the core strength to push himself off the ground, he realizes he’s naked. It’s somewhat hard to look around, his neck is sore from hanging loosely with the weight of his head. His spine is filled with cricks and cracks. </p><p>He’s sitting on a slab of rock in the middle of the wilderness, he realizes, and this does not manage to inspire much of anything inside him aside from the same blurry confusion. He’s also blue. The parts of him that ache every morning don’t ache as much, different parts hurt instead, and it’s enough that he can’t seem to tune them out. </p><p>He’s also blue. That gets him to sit up. His skin is a dark greyish blue, and he feels different. Clearer. After a moment on his bare ass, he stands up too, and it doesn’t hurt all that much. He’s not even lightheaded. Was he supposed to be lightheaded? He doesn’t remember why that’s so surprising.</p><p>The rocks around him jut up from the earth like spikes, or perhaps a shield, as they curve to form a ring of shelter around the standing stone into which is carved a familiar figure. The Atronach. 50 Magicka points, -50% Magicka Regeneration. </p><p>The prisoner finds himself reaching forward to touch it, despite not knowing whether he even could cast spells, and jumps away quickly when the stone hums loudly, suddenly alighting and calling to him, filling what feels like his soul with energy. </p><p>He jumps again with an embarrassing shout as his hands start glowing. when fire escapes from one palm when he shakes it, his instincts collide and he ends up dropping to his knees and slapping his hands palm first onto the stone. </p><p>After a moment, he’s shocked and awed to find it a reliable solution. </p><p>He glances to the corpse on the ground next to him, registering its existence. It doesn’t move, and yet the prisoner still feels somewhat embarrassed at being naked in front of it. He supposes it’s the shock. </p><p>He’s in Skyrim, he realizes with a sudden certainty. The corpse is dressed exactly like any Skyrim bandit. Huh. </p><p>Okay. So he was… someone. He was someone who knew about Skyrim cus he played it and he’s… he’s someone else now. A blue someone. Who isn’t lightheaded or shaky or…</p><p>He doesn’t want to leave the standing stone, in truth. As of now his little piece of Skyrim had kept him entirely safe from harm, aside from his own actions, and if his memory served him correctly, the wilds expanding around him were teeming with danger. </p><p>Nervously, he crawls under one of the curved stones, reveling in it’s shelter. The stone is cold under his thighs, and seeps into his bones without clothes as protection. The subtle yet sharp breeze is cut by the stone, and he’s offered slight relief, but only very slight. He needs warmth, and food, and people to protect him. </p><p>He needs bed, and his laptop, and the door to be closed and the windows drawn and silence, silence, silence- </p><p>Those memories are gone before he can even hold them, like air passing between his fingers.</p><p>(He craves it, but he doesn’t know what IT is.) </p><p>He holds his hands to his chest, taking a steadying breath, then peaks out. Slightly southwest, towards the river that he can just see from his perch atop the hill, there is a mill. </p><p>He’d not memorized the map, but peaceful settlements along the riverside weren’t uncommon, and once he met a few of the NPCS- people, a few of the people, perhaps he might get his bearings. It was only a short walk to the river below, the sun was lowering on the horizon, and his temperature was dropping. He could do this. </p><p>He has to strip down the bandit’s body for it’s clothes first, but that’s a hurdle he’s willing to overcome if it means no longer being naked in public. </p><p>He looks around desperately for a moment, but when no other obvious solutions appear to him, he takes a ginger, lingering step off the rocky platform, and onto the hard soil. </p><p>Something rustles in the bushes behind him and his heart skips a beat. He spins around, neck snapping towards the source of the noise, as he watches a bunny hop peacefully out of the underbrush, and over to snuffle at the dead body. </p><p>The prisoner nearly bursts into tears. Clothes acquired after a maddening amount of frantic effort, feeling more than a bit hysterical, he half walks half runs down the slope of the hill towards Darkwater Crossing. </p><p>--</p><p>There are two figures that the prisoner can see standing outside a house as he approaches, a dunmer man and a nord woman. They pay little attention to him at first as he makes his way down the mountain, but as he gets closer the man seems to spot him and point him out to his companion, who turns to watch his approach as well. They don’t seem particularly upset to see him, so the prisoner feels his spirits lift. </p><p>“Hail, traveler! You’re a long way from Windhelm,” the dunmer remarks good naturedly, “Where are you headed?” </p><p>“I need to get to Whiterun, but I’m lost,” he replies, and he watches their faces shift in confusion. The words coming out of his mouth sound twisted and different, compared to the common english the man speaks. His anxiety spikes, and he tries again, “Is Whiterun nearby? Did I say something wrong?” </p><p>The nord woman turns to her dunmer companion, looking concerned. “Is he speaking Dunmeris? I can’t understand him.” </p><p>The prisoner’s stomach drops. Of course, nothing can be easy. </p><p>(Distantly, he recognizes that he’s a dunmer with a faint sort of “Huh.” that is not his most pressing of concerns.)</p><p>The dunmer himself shakes his head, looking equally baffled. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve lived in skyrim all my life.” The dunmer leans into the prisoner, eyes wide like he was speaking to a child, “Can. You. Speak. Cyrodilic?”</p><p>The prisoner shakes his head, sadly. Only human english, it would seem. </p><p>The nord woman huffs a bit, and crosses her arms all proud. “Well at least he can understand us! Now, what is it that you need? We don’t have much, but here in Skyrim we treat our neighbours very well, you’ll see.” </p><p>After a moment of silent panic, the prisoner shrugs sadly. He doesn’t know what to do. He barely even knows where he is.</p><p>“.... Do you need directions? Where to?” The dunmer asks, then seeing his mistake, waves a hand dismissively. “You know what, I have an old translator’s guide I bought once. Let me go see if I can find it.” </p><p>The prisoner nods enthusiastically, and takes a seat on a stump not far from the door where the nord woman directs him too, leg bouncing with nerves. He can feel this wind on his nearly bare back like constant icy hands tickling his blind side, and he’s tensed as if at any moment a dragon might come swooping down from above, killing him instantly. </p><p>He must make quite the picture to these strangers. Five minutes passes before there is anything to distract him from his own growing panic. </p><p>Another nord woman approaches, noticing the out of place dunmer that has taken up residence on the stump outside her(?) house. “Who’s that?” she asks, and the first woman explains him as “A foreigner who came from over the north hill, can’t speak a lick of common.” She doesn’t even bother lowering her voice. </p><p>“Do you think he might be with… well… you know…” The second woman seems nervous as the first turns to her in shock. </p><p>“I think he’s from Morrowind, probably illegally crossed the border,” she huffs, “Maybe he was trying to make it to Windhelm? He could know other Dunmer from there.” </p><p>“What are the odds though? Showing up tonight? And if he does know people from Windhelm that only implicates him further…” </p><p>Dove stares at his feet as the first woman scoffs, “The Jarl isn’t exactly quiet about his distaste for the elves, Annekke. Why would one ever fight for his cause?” </p><p>“Maybe he’s a spy… that last person the empire would ever suspect…”</p><p>At the same moment that the dunmer comes out of his house at long last, carrying a heavy tome and looking more than a little harried, the thundering of hooves is heard in the distance. Around the bend of the river comes a battalion of soldiers, stormcloaks, by the colour of their garb, riding black and white bay horses, the steeds of the Eastmarch. Leading his men, dressed in the finest of furs, is Ulfric Stormcloak himself. </p><p>The dunmer drops his book and hurries back inside. If the prisoner’s legs hadn’t frozen with fear he might have done the same. </p><p>Several of the stormcloaks dismount as they circle the mining town, tying their horses to fence posts and making themselves comfortable. Ulfric himself approaches Annekke, still atop his beautiful steed, and gazes down on her for a moment, emanating power.</p><p>“This town has been requisitioned for the war effort by me, Ulfric Stormcloak, your Jarl, and true High King of Skyrim. Do I hear any complaints?” </p><p>The women seem equally as terrified, but they manage to shake their heads no. The Jarl trots off haughtily, a half dozen soldiers rushing to attend to him. </p><p>Thousands of little hints all rush back to the prisoner, Eastmarch, the Atronach stone, Annekke, the dunmer who he was now certain was Sondas Drenim, who he was also certain he had married on one of his many save files. He was in Darkwater Crossing. The ambush, the start of the game, was about to take place. </p><p>Paralysed with fear, none of the stormcloaks paid him any mind, snickering to themselves as the walked past him. He sat there for what felt like ages as Ulfric’s guard set up camp around him, pitching tents and corralling the horses all to one fence. He was torn between the urge to make a break for the hills, and the anxiety that kept him glued to his seat, unable to make a sound.</p><p>The sky had reached its last stages of darkening when movement amongst the horses caught his eye from his perch, freezing his arse off but hidden mostly by shadow and surely forgotten by Ulfric and his goons. A new player had snuck up behind the soldiers and was attempting to untie the ropes fastening the steeds to their post, perhaps hoping that one out of the dozen would surely not be missed. Lokir, the prisoner told himself, and the inevitability of it all clenched at his heart with a wrought iron fist. </p><p>He closed his eyes, waiting for the jumpscare. Any moment now… 3….. 2….. 1….. </p><p>“Hey!” Shouted a voice, “Get away from those horses! Thief! Thief!”</p><p>The camp flew into motion, and in the confusion, the first volley of arrows went almost unnoticed. “ATTACK! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” Someone screamed as a second volley came arching down from the hill that the prisoner had descended himself this morning. </p><p>Pandemonium ensued. The prisoner cowered behind his stump. Someone- a voice he recognised as Ralof, shouted, “BRACE YOURSELVES!” </p><p>The prisoner peaked up from his hiding place just in time to see the third imperial volley, and get a clean view of the arrow that struck him between his eyes only moments before his world went completely black. </p><p>The ground was swaying underneath his feet when he awoke again, making it hard to open his eyes, that and the blinding light of the sun. His bare feet vibrated against the rough wood of the carriage floor, the bench he was slumped against low enough to the ground that his hip sockets ached. The prisoner roused himself, or tried to, his arms and legs locked together by not only rope, but stiffness.</p><p>“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.” </p><p>The Dragonborn cursed under his breath. Not. A. Fucking. Gain.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw for this chapter:<br/>- vomiting mention<br/>- cannibalisim mention</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."</p>
<p>He tries to say something snappy, but it comes out as mumbled half asleep gibberish, and Ralof only gives him a concerned look.</p>
<p>“Damn you stormcloaks!” Lokir curses, drawing Ralof’s attention back to him, “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.”</p>
<p>“Don’t run when the captain calls your name,” the Dragonborn tells him, because it doesn’t seem to matter anyways, “Or do. if you just stay Alduin will show up and you’ll probably die then too. Your choice.” </p>
<p>Ralof frowns in confusion, but Lokir just laughs hysterically. “Divines… you don’t even speak common. You couldn’t be a stormcloak! You and me… we shouldn’t be here! It’s these rebels the empire wants!” </p>
<p>“We’re all brothers in binds now, thief,” Ralof scolds, and the Dragonborn has to resist rolling his eyes so hard he nearly passes out again, slumping against the wagon seat rather then listen to this dialogue, which had been burned into his frontal cortex by now. </p>
<p>They pass under the gates of Helgen, and all the panic that had been suffocating the Dragonborn’s chest seeps back in like an old friend, and he closes his eyes, willing himself to just wake up. </p>
<p>He would believe this was just a dream, if he could remember exactly what it was he would be waking up to. </p>
<p>“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!” Lokir cries, as he’s forced to his feet and off the cart, “We weren’t with you, this is a mistake!” </p>
<p>“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Ralof scolds him once more, with no remorse, and the Dragonborn almost wants to punch him for it. </p>
<p>“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time,” the captain tells him, an unnamed NPC you kill if you side with Ralof. Except now she’s a real imperial woman, who’s animating- moving with her own distinct characteristics, and the idea that everyone in this area who isn’t him and a select few will be dead within a few minutes has his mind flooding with fog and his breathing beginning to feel laboured. </p>
<p>He doesn’t hear anything, can’t hear anything, but when Lokir goes to run he watches with bated breath. He’s shot down. The Dragonborn isn’t even spared a glance, and yet he feels like he’s screaming. Is he not? He’s losing it a little, he thinks. No one looks still, not anyone except for Hadvar, standing in front of him, who’s face softens. He checks his list. After a moment, and a second check, he frowns, confused. </p>
<p>“Wait,” he looks back at the Dragonborn, beckoning as warmly as he can, “Step forward.”</p>
<p>The Dragonborn does, trying to gain control back over his breathing enough to speak. Hadvar asks, gently, “Who… are you?” </p>
<p>After a moment of waiting for the game to pause, the Dragonborn realizes nothing’s going to happen. “Dovah,” He replies simply, cus Dovahkiin felt a little wordy.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The seconds his hands are free they fly to Hadvar’s neck, closing his eyes and thinking hard about that feeling in his soul he’d gotten when he’d touched the Atronach, about bright golden lights and healing his wounds. He even says a quick prayer to Mara, though admittedly he was never much of a religious man so the words don’t form the most cohesive of thoughts. </p>
<p>His hands shake. Alduin had stared directly into his soul. Like he knew. He’d been so large, so much larger and more powerful then he’d even seemed behind a screen.</p>
<p>The Magic comes seeping through his soul, following deep in the core of his being and spreading out from his palms, an angelic glow radiating as the gash and his own minor debris wounds start knitting themselves together. He has just enough extra magicka to heal them both completely before he feels like collapsing, and he thanks the divines for the Atronach stone with every laboured breath. </p>
<p>“Easy,” Hadvar grabs his shoulder, “Divines. Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?”</p>
<p>The Dragonborn laughs dryly, “Yeah, and I’m really the Dragonborn.”</p>
<p>Hadvar shakes his head, “I wish I could understand you. Your name is Dove, right?”</p>
<p>Dove shrugs, deciding not to vocalize “Close enough,” when he’s thoroughly given up on communication as a whole.</p>
<p>“Can you understand me?” Hadvar asks, peering at his face with an open curiosity. Dove can only shrug again and nod quickly, and Hadvar seems reassured enough to remove his hand from Dove’s shoulder. He’s almost greedy enough for the comfort to reach out and put it back. </p>
<p>“That's good, we’ll move quicker that way. Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from. I’m going to see if I can find something for the burns, going forward.”</p>
<p>He spends most of the next few hours running, hiding behind Hadvar, and trying not to cry. By the time they’ve reached the cave entrance, Dove is back to wondering whether leaving his safety rock was a smart idea on anyone’s part, really, in the cosmic sense. </p>
<p>Hadvar trips on a root as they sneak past the bear, and awake she rises, charging him with the blind fury of an apex predator woken from her beauty sleep. Blind to the elf crouching behind a boulder, she takes 5 shaky arrows to the torso before slowing her down, and a sixth to the dome before she relents. The glow of restoration magic gets Hadvar back on his feet, but Dove supports him over his shoulder the whole way home. </p>
<p>His ears still ring with adrenaline as they reach the standing stones. The bow that had saved Hadvar’s life clutched in one hand, he lays the other on “Thief.” Seems as though his path has been chosen for him. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The moment he’s left to his own devices in the basement of Hadvar’s house, Dove wriggles out of the singed and ill fitting imperial leathers, then the prisoner rags underneath with a sigh of relief. He’s not too hurried once they’re off, staring off into space for a long while before laying out the too big yet soft linen undershirt and pants the nord had handed him. He takes a moment to look down at his new body, so grey and unfamiliar.</p>
<p>His palms were dark blue on the inside, rather than his skin tone, and his skin seemed smooth and unblemished, brand new. He touched his face, but despite the obvious difference when it came to large, pointy ears, he couldn’t decide whether or not there was a difference in his cheeks, in his eyes. It wasn’t like he could ask for a mirror, and if he were to go rummaging around for one himself his hosts might get the wrong idea and kick him out. He’s a dunmer, Dove supposes, that’s enough information to go on for now. </p>
<p>The clothes are warm and soft on his body, and he sleeps through to lunch. When he wakes up in bed, for a second he’s convinced his memories are coming back to him. </p>
<p>He rolls over and sits up to find his body agile and his mind well rested, both unfamiliar concepts to whoever he used to be. It doesn’t hurt to lay in bed a moment longer, staring unfeeling at the wooden slats above. His stomach aches, a more obtainable ache to focus on. He rises from safe comfort, aware that he has broken a rule, somewhere. </p>
<p>After a quick impromptu game of charades that makes the Dragonborn feel more like a dancing monkey, Alvor is willing to trade the imperial armor Dove had worn with a set of furs, thick and warm, while Sigrid prepares the two of them a meal. He and Hadvar devour the stew within moments, Dove trying his best to pay little attention to textures and flavours in favour of just getting the mystery soup into his stomach where it could provide him with the nutrients that he needs. </p>
<p>He puts the furs on over the linens, and thanks the nords as best he can when they offer him the spare cot in the basement, while Dorthe would sleep with her parents and Hadvar would take her own bed. He’s settled in for the time being, though Sigrid is yet to ask him anything about Whitreun, and somehow it’s still only midday. Time drags on slow, he supposes, before the age of entertainment. </p>
<p>Hadvar cleans his sword, and entertains his niece’s many questions. Dove feels wildy out of place, only able to sit it and soak up the unique dialogue for so long before the existentialism begins to creep in.</p>
<p>After selling everything he refuses to try and carry, unfortunately thoroughly taken advantage of as he's unable to haggle, he’s left with a hefty sack of 280 gold. He goes to grab his bow and 200 of the gold, then to find Faendal.</p>
<p>Lucky for him, the elf is chopping wood just outside of town, and seems in a good mood. It’s only when he approaches he realizes the step in his plan that had been missing, as Faendal glances up and waits for him to speak.</p>
<p>Dove waves, awkwardly. Faendal smiles obligingly, and waves back. Dove feels like pulling out his hair at the roots, but instead he wordlessly gestures with the sack of coins and then his bow. </p>
<p>Faendal seems confused. “I already have a bow, thanks.”</p>
<p>“No, just fucking teach me,” Dove whines, but of course he doesn’t say that, he says complete and utter gibberish that sounds wrong and otherworldly to even his own ears. His distress is mirrored on Faendal’s face, and he buries his face in his hands. </p>
<p>The bosmer, to his credit, doesn’t call him a madman. He smiles warily and backs up, hands raised. “... I have to get going, I’m sorry, have a wonderful day-”</p>
<p>“No!” Dove shouts, and Faendal flinches in fear. In a fit of frustration, Dove points at Faendal, then himself, then pulls the bowstring, then shrugs, then hands him the gold, then points at him again, then points at his head. </p>
<p>“..... You want me to teach you?”</p>
<p>Dove could kiss him. He feels like crying, and he’s sure his relief shows on his face as he nods. The bosmer finally takes the sack of gold from his hands, peering inside and weighing it for validity. Dove is surprised he doesn’t count them. </p>
<p>“This is… 200 gold?” Faendal guesses, which is a generous assumption even if it is correct, “.. I guess that's enough. I'll show you what I know, follow me.”</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The peak of the mountain is nearly opaque with clouds of thrashing snow, a snowstorm to topple buildings, but chill cannot penetrate the thick hide of the lycanthrope that climbs icy stone steps to reach his destination. Azura's statue towers above him, and he will not rest until he’s reached her. </p>
<p>
 “You Will Walk Theses Steps In Due Time, Champion. You Have Seen This Future As Well As I”
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>His hands slip on the icy rock face and he is falling, falling, his lifeless form plummeting from frigid mountain peaks straight to fiery hell. He doesn’t hit ground so much as crash through ice, and the flames that circle his vision roar as if speaking. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>They twirl and plume, yellow and red fury that they cannot reach him, as his body bobs and sinks into the frigid water. He can see the ice reforming above him as he sinks, darkness creeping it at the corners of his vision, the roars of the ocean and the flames above still deafening, everything is just so loud. </i>
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      <i>“DO NOT LISTEN TO HER. SHE IS WEAK, DOCILE, SPINELESS. YOU WILL KNEEL AT MY ALTAR AND SUBMIT TO MY WORSHIP OR YOU WILL PERISH AS WORTHLESS AS YOU ARE NOW, UNWORTHY OF LIFE.”<i></i></i>
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        <i>His vision goes black, but the strength is coming back to his limbs so achingly slow, he thrashes against the pain but cannot move. He flails uselessly in water like quicksand, until it’s filling his lungs down to his toes and his body is no longer his own- someone else is in control- </i>
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        <i>-And he’s washed up on a beach. He rolls shore onto the warm sands and coughs. He can’t stop, no matter how much water leaves his body his throat contracts again. Seaweed sticks along the length of his throat as he hacks up double time, and after a few labored breaths, he reaches into his own mouth to tug the constricting vine from his esophagus.</i>
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        <i>He had sworn it was a piece of seaweed. A long, slippery piece of seaweed. But the image in his hands flickers and fades, glimpses of another reality melting into place, his mind accepting what stands before him. His stomach drops as his fractured psyche finally registers the human intestine he is holding. </i>
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          <i> “You can not hide from your true self any longer, Champion… You know you’ve wondered what it would be like… What tendons would feel like under your knife, how thick strips of muscle might rip from the bone, pulse in your grip, blood pooling under your fingernails- I know you still bite them- I know you champion….” <i></i></i>
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            <i>The beach is muggy and sticky with blood, he’s sweating and shaking and crying and heaving, there’s the buzz of mosquitos in his ears and they grow louder and louder and louder...</i>
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              <i>“Champion.”<i></i></i>
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                  <i>“CHAMPION!”<i></i></i>
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                      <i>“Champion...” <i></i></i>
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                        <i>“ENOUGH!” A voice bellows, and suddenly all is silent, except for the peep of a bird and a soft, gentle stream. Dove realizes, for the first time, that his eyes had been closed. He opens them, and is sitting in a meadow.</i>
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                        <i>A man stands a few feet away from him. The Daedric Prince of Madness, Sheogorath, to be specific. “I'm dreadfully sorry about that!” He cries, “My fellow Princes, they have no manners. It’s a shame! Really! You should see them at a dinner party.”</i>
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                        <i>Dove opens his mouth to ask “What,” or “Why,” but he does not and he does not need to. In fact, he’s not even sure if Sheogorath was speaking out loud. Everything was so.. quiet.<br/>
Emerging in soft images into his mind, he sees the world that has been created for him almost like a stop motion video. Serene, calm, slow, spoonfed into his frightened mind. </i>
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                        <i>“We all felt the pull,” The Prince of Madness tells him, unnervingly serious, “Even from Oblivion, the tear in Aetherius as you plummeted to Nirn reverberated in us. In EVERYONE! You cut a hole straight through the cosmos! THIS IS TERRIBLE! We weren't even ready for guests! Here!” The next image Dove is aware of he is sat at a long tea table, wearing a nordic frock and hat. Sheogorath smiles at him, seated his opposite, “That's much better!”</i>
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                        <i>He tries to ask, to think, but his eyes just want to stay open and consume what he is being offered. Bliss holds him, comforts him, takes control. </i>
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                        <i>Sheogorath removes a ridiculously ornate stopwatch from his breast pocket and tuts disapprovingly. “Already? I had hoped we’d have time for tea. Maybe some wine and cheese?”</i>
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                        <i>Dove shakes his head, his eyes getting heavier again. “No,” he tries to think, “No. Stay here.” </i>
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                        <i>If the Daedric Prince of Madness can hear him, he does not show it. He untucks the napkin from his collar and folds it uncarefully into a perfect crane, sighing and swinging his boots onto the table. </i>
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                        <i>“Well now,” He chimes, “I’ve lured you into a false sense of security! I couldn’t have planned this any better myself. Because I did! Or did I?” </i>
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                        <i>A piece of reality comes loose like dead skin flaking off. It flutters in the breeze, landing in Dove’s cup of tea. It folds into itself, fluttering its wings like a butterfly. </i>
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                        <i>Dove has a second to close his eyes before reality falls apart at the seams and crawls inside him to devour him alive. </i>
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                        <i>He does not take that second fast enough.</i>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dove wakes up.</p>
<p>The absence of sound buzzes in his ears like dead radio waves, nothing but static behind his eyes. He’s not sure how long he lies in his own cold sweat, eventually the humming of his body seems to return to him and he can feel his fingers twitch below the threadbare quilt. </p>
<p>He’s exhausted, perhaps even more so then when he fell asleep, his muscles ache and his mind runs slow, sluggishly. Still, he blinks awake as the sheets rustle upstairs and he hears the quiet pitter patter of small feet, eager for breakfast in the morning. He doesn’t know how early it is, he supposes around dawn, which is far too early for him, but it would be rude to keep his hosts waiting for him while he snoozed well into the afternoon.</p>
<p>If he doesn’t get up now, he doubts he will all day. </p>
<p>He has a piercing migraine, and it’s not unfamiliar to him, but it takes him a second to remember that even if this world did have an naproxen or acetaminophen equivalent, he would have no way of asking.</p>
<p>He settles instead for rehydrating himself, and hopes his guests don't mind terribly as he grabs a wooden cup from the shelf and presses down the tap of the water barrel, filling it to the brim with lukewarm, dusty water. </p>
<p>He grimaces, but chugs until there is nothing left to soothe his blistering lips. He fills his cup a second time, halfway through, then goes back to sit on his cot and take more measured, controlled sips. </p>
<p>His pallet still tastes of old honey and ham, and he’s sure his morning breath is horrendous. Swishing the water around his mouth only eases the disgusting flavour of his own tongue. </p>
<p>After his second cup of water is finished too, he stands up once more on shaky legs and begins to assemble the backpack he had plotted, as he’d been falling asleep. </p>
<p>There’s already a bedroll rolled in the straps of the pack Alvor had given him. He gathers all the potions he’d saved (save four), the change of clothes he’d been given, the handful of lockpicks he’d kept, and a roll of parchment.  </p>
<p>The pouch on his belt held his last four potions and his lockpicks, his waterskin tied on the opposite side, a coin purse fastened at his hip. The rest of his meager belongings fit easily in the pack, which he slings over his shoulder alongside his quiver. He looks down on himself as he laces up the  boots of his fur armor and dons his novice hood, feeling a surge of confidence spike through him. He looks like a real adventurer. It is an almost giddy feeling, washing away the anxiety pounding in his chest. </p>
<p>He eats breakfast with Hadvar’s family, the Imperial himself already gone. Alvor writes a letter for him to deliver to the Jarl, once he’s confirmed for himself that Dove understands Cyrodilic. He sets out onto the road, painted pink with the colours of the rising sun. </p>
<p>His muscles are tugged gently with every step by the firm hand of sleep, brittle in his bones and tight in his legs. His arms are lead weights, his bow must weigh a thousand pounds. </p>
<p>He moves forward. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Him and the wolf stand there, frozen in place, locked eyes. As the wolf leans back onto his haunches, slowly, so as not to startle it's prey, Dove does the same, raising his bow as Faendal taught him. </p>
<p>The beast’s lips curl back in a primal snarl, ears flat against its head. His bowstring pulled taut, Dove squints, takes a deep breath, and fires. At the same moment, the wolf lunges, but its momentum is halted by an arrow in the eye and it yelps, staggering to the side and slumping hard into the ground. </p>
<p>Not exactly a challenging target, 10 feet away and stationary, but Dove is proud of himself for keeping the panicking to a minimum. He considers skinning its fur to sell later, but would have no clue how. Instead, he settles on nudging the body with his toe (he nearly gags at the sensation), then sets back down the road to Whiterun, equal parts terrified and resigned, with a dash of newfound courage. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Irileth coming at him with her sword drawn is more than enough to spike his heart rate again. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” she commands him, “The Jarl is not receiving visitors.”</p>
<p>Dove waves the letter desperately. “If you don't let me through I’m going to cry, just so you know. It’s been a long day.”</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon?” her face wrinkles in confusion. </p>
<p>He waves the letter again, more intently. </p>
<p>Cautiously she reaches out with her non-sword hand, snatching the missive from his fingers. “Give me that,” she snarls. He’s surprised she doesn’t set the parchment aflame with the intensity of her scrutiny. </p>
<p>“This is urgent,” she declares, “the Jarl must hear this at once. You, come with me.” Sheathing her sword, Irileth leads Dove up the slanted wooden stairs. He lets himself feel relieved. </p>
<p>Balgruuf is more intimidating in person then he had been modeled out of pixels on a screen. When he turns his gaze to Dove, looking him up and down like a disinterested judge at a dog show, the dragonborn’s heart begins to pound in his chest. Most things seem to have that effect on him. </p>
<p>The Jarl waits expectantly for a moment, where Dove gets the impression he’s supposed to say something. Irileth hands the Jarl the letter, but rather than open it, he folds it over and shifts his weight backwards, to observe the strange dunmer before him. “Well,” he leads, “I trust you have something vitally important to tell me. Important enough to interrupt me in the middle of council?"</p>
<p>Dove nods, and gestures towards the letter. When the Jarl doesn’t move to open it, he adds, frustrated, “I speak in gibberish to you. This is me telling you I speak in gibberish. You don’t understand me.” </p>
<p>“I don’t understand him…” The Jarl seems taken aback, “Is he speaking Dumeris, Irileth?” </p>
<p>“Not any Dunmeris I’d recognise, my lord. It could be a regional dialect, or perhaps he’s just a raving mad man.” </p>
<p>Dove can’t think of a way to respond to that accusation that would make him seem less crazy. Thankfully, Proventus suggests actually taking a look at the letter Alvor had given him, and the conversation carried on without too much interrogation. </p>
<p>Proventus doesn’t want to start a war with Falkreath, Balgruuf tells Irileth to send guards anyways, since this is our opportunity as a protagonist to figure out who’s a good guy and who’s a bad guy through narrative clues. Out of the context of a video game, Dove is just waiting in terror to see if someone’s noticed he’s not supposed to be there.</p>
<p>Balgruuf turns his attention once more to Dove, as Proventus fucks off and Irileth marches away. “Can you understand me?” He asks, not unkindly, and that alone endears him to Dove more than saving 100 random villagers could. He nods, and the Jarl seems pleased. </p>
<p>“Well done,” he applauds, solemnly, “You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it.” Dove startles and nearly yelps when Hrongar appears suddenly behind him, and awkwardly accepts the scaled armor he carries in his hands. </p>
<p>“There,” says Balgruuf, once the dunmer has the breastplate safely hoisted in his arms, “take this as a small token of my esteem." </p>
<p>He sits up a little, pensively, “There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.” Dove doesn’t need to put much effort into looking terrified and woefully ill-equipped. The Jarl sighs, waving a dismissive hand. “Nevermind,” he chides, “Thank you for your service. Farewell.” </p>
<p>Dove walks out the hold’s front doors. If there was something he was talented at, it was avoiding the main quest. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Dove wakes up with a start, nearly falling out of his bed at the Bannered Mare. He flops back into the mattress with a sign, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. It’s not as though it’s a very comfortable bed, but it’s got a mattress, a bedframe, and a blanket with no holes. It’s as good as he’ll get, for the foreseeable future. </p>
<p>His night terrors were just as horrible as the night before. There was no reprieve from the pure panic and fear, even now as he stares at the sunlight coming in his door as if it could burn away the memories. He’d resisted falling asleep for as long as he could, but it doesn’t seem to have made much of a difference. He’s exhausted. </p>
<p>His first morning in Whiterun he spends chopping wood out front with an axe he bought from Adrianne, after he runs that sword of her’s up to the castle for the 20 gold it cost. His arms are burning before he’s even begun swinging, from the day before yesterday’s archery practise, and his whole body is stiff from exertion. He powers through, feeling the burning of his biceps in every chop, telling himself over and over that he just needs one more log, just one more swing. By midday he’s got a sizable pile for which he is paid handsomely, his chopped logs fetch him a hefty sum. </p>
<p>The people of Whiterun find him quietly fascinating. The story that seems to have spread is that he’s cursed, or touched by a daedra, at least that’s what he overhears in the Inn. Lunch is vegetable soup, which he eats while thinking about the vegetable soup speedrun hack and feeling utterly and entirely divorced from reality. </p>
<p>He’s still somewhat dissociated when Hulda comes back to the counter with his sack of gold for the logs. He zones out staring at the coins until Hulda asks him cautiously if there’s something wrong with them. He couldn’t explain to her that something was wrong with him if he wanted to, so he just shakes his head and goes to finish his soup upstairs in his room. </p>
<p>He stares at the ceiling of the Bannered Mare and doesn’t know why he feels like crying until Mikael stops strumming his lute and Dove feels like he can breathe again. It’s far too familiar, all of it. He knows too much about Skyrim to be walking around a stranger. </p>
<p>Part of him thinks if he could just get a second of sleep without the dreams he’d wake up on the other side. It’s a thought he mulls over, hunched on the edge of his bed, spooning broth into his mouth. </p>
<p>The surefire way to get out of Skyrim would be to complete the main quest, Dove acknowledges. Fighting dragons seems far, far out of his current reach. He needs to get confident in battle, train, get better armor and allies. </p>
<p>Sighing, he takes a seat at the writing desk at the back of the room and fishes charcoal and parchment out of his bag. </p>
<p>
  <i> I am cursed to speak nonsense. I would like to join the Companions. </i>
</p>
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    <i></i>
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<p>He considers adding “please”, but decides against it. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>"A stranger comes to our hall." Kodlak appraises him from his chair, Vilkas making a face like he’d just smelled rotten eggs. His face is kind and grandfatherly, with warm eyes that settle Dove’s high-strung nerves. Dove sticks out his hand and quickly offers Kodlak the note. The old man frowns, reaching out after a beat and taking it. “A courier?” He asks, disappointed. </p>
<p>Dove gives the old man a minute to read the note, and watches his face split into a warm grin. He chuckles, and Dove quirks a smile nervously. “Would you now?” he asks, “Here, let me have a look at you.” </p>
<p>Kodlak stands, and walks a circle around Dove, examining him almost clinically. The dragonborn straightens his back like a ruler and clenches a hand on his bow, but lets the examination happen. Vilkas studies him too, clearly unimpressed with whatever he finds. Dove wonders if he can see that Dove’s arms are screaming from just one morning of hard labour from where he’s sat. </p>
<p>“Hmmmm,” The Harbinger ponders, “Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit." A certain recognisable face from a haunting dream, perhaps. To his credit, Kodlak gives nothing away of what must be a profound moment of destiny for him. Vilkas seems gobsmacked. </p>
<p>“Master,” he gapes, as Kodlak takes to his seat once more, “You’re not truly considering accepting him?” </p>
<p>Kodlak chides, “I am nobody’s master, Vilkas. And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.” </p>
<p>“Apologies,” Vilkas says, though it’s directed more towards Kodlak than to Dove himself. “But perhaps this isn’t the time. I’ve never even heard of this outsider.” </p>
<p>Dove stands there, silent as a whisper, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot as the two bicker. The only way he’ll ever earn Vilkas’s respect is by showing competence and heroics, which in Vilkas’s defense, is not something he’s capable of in the slightest. </p>
<p>“How are you in battle, boy?” Kodlak asks. Dove winces, a bit ashamed. Vilkas rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>Kodlak harrumphs. “Much to learn? Well, that’s the spirit! Vilkas, here, will get started on that.” </p>
<p>Dove feels something shift, almost imperceptibly. He’s joined the faction. He’s condemned the old man in front of him to death. He’s going to become Harbinger, whether he likes it or not. </p>
<p>Vilkas nearly tramples him when he checks his shoulder against Dove as he passes, not willing to wait for the Dunmer to move. And after a second, the dragonborn follows.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Vilkas rolls his shoulders back, the wisps of clouds drifting somewhere high in the bright blue sky. It’s noticeably warm for the first time since Dove could remember, the sun beating down. He thinks it must be three, not much later. It gets dark early in Skyrim. </p>
<p>They center in the courtyard, just in front of the straw practise dummies. Ria and Skjor are outside, The old man hacking away at the hay bale targets and Ria watching him, face scrunched into an endearing cartoony expression of focus. They both back off once they see Vilkas draw his sword, casually leaning up against the rail under the pavilion, Ria following Skjor’s example, ready to watch. Dove turns away from observing them to face Vilkas, who shifts into a fighting stance. </p>
<p>The twin nods at him, expectant. “The old man said to have a look at you, so let’s do this.” He shoves Dove ungently into a fighting stance, and takes a step back, rolling his eyes, “Just have a few swigs at me so I can see your form.” Sarcastically, he adds, “Don’t worry, I can take it.” </p>
<p>“Swings?” Dove thinks to himself, confused, but he doesn’t have time to panic before Vilkas takes a breath and lunges forward with a broad downward slash at his torso. </p>
<p>Dove barely manages to leap back, the very tip of the blade catching on the scales of his armor, scratching it. He tries to back up again for the second swig but hits the pavilion pillar, trapped between a sword and a hard place. the sword tears a gash down through his shoulder, and the pain nearly makes him cry out before he bites his tongue. </p>
<p>Scrambling for air he does his best attempt a roll under Vilkas’s next swing and makes it to the other side, able to stumble to his feet and turn around in time to duck out of the way of a fourth. His bow blocks a fifth, and for a second he struggles against the full weight of the werewolf bearing down on him, his eyes ferocious. He grits his teeth and focuses, fighting instincts kicking in and the desperate anxiety turning into adrenaline. Just as it seems Vilkas has him right where he wants him, when he’s right about to snap, something inside the dragonborn ignites. </p>
<p>Dove catches on fire. </p>
<p>“By Ysmir!” Vilkas shouts, taking a stumbling couple steps back. Dove notches an arrow the second he has the breathing room and sends it flying, but Vilkas only parries it away with his shield, a loud TWANG echoes through the courtyard. The warrior charges once more, roaring, and Dove does his best to parry a blow with his bow that nearly knocks his shoulder out his socket and side steps him, notching another arrow. Point blank it lodges itself between the gaps in Vilkas’s platemail, right in the ribcage. </p>
<p>He grunts from the impact and raises his shield hand to pause. He puts his weight on his sword hand, dropping the blade and burying the tip of it in the dirt to use as support. “Not bad,” he chuckles, not quite facing Dove but giving him a satisfied smirk out of his periphery. “Next time won’t be so easy.” </p>
<p>Dove’s heart races with energy, and his skin still flickers with flame. He’s not really sure how to turn either of them off. He lowers his bow and tries to search for his quiver with the arrow he’d grabbed, holstering it back. </p>
<p>Vilkas shifts, pressing his sword into Dove’s chest. He grabs onto it with the hand not holding his bow on instinct, the comparatively cool metal against his raging skin a relief. Vilkas uses his now free hand to snap the arrow Dove buried in his side off at the neck, gesturing with the feathered end. </p>
<p>“You just might make it,” he compromises, “But for now, you’re still a whelp to us, new blood.” Pointing the wooden stick at Dove’s face, he growls, “So you do what we tell you to.” </p>
<p>Dove can feel like heartbeat in his shoulder as it throbs violently, screaming murder all all his senses. He nods stiffly at Vilkas, who lowers the stick to point at his sword. “There’s my sword. Go take it up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And be careful,” he adds, looking Dove up and down with distaste, “it’s probably worth more than you are.” </p>
<p>Dove nods, and watches Vilkas walk back to the longhouse, not even limping despite the metal lodged in his ribcage, proud and strong. Skjor gives him a knowing nod, and Vilkas does not make a move to acknowledge him in the slightest. Ria waves at Dove when she sees him looking, calling out, “Not bad!” </p>
<p>The walk up to Eorlund feels like it takes an hour, what with his shoulder aching. With every step, he thinks back on his scant memories of modern life, and comes to terms with the fact that nothing will never be as good as a motivator for him as a man with a sword swinging wildly at his face. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>He drinks a healing potion and practises his restoration magic while he watches Eorlund smith, taking a moment to catch his breath. The smith seems unbothered by his silent observer, making no attempts at small talk. When his shoulder is left with nothing but a faint line that will fade within the week, he gets up, and Eorlund hands him Aela’s shield and some advice before he goes. Dove nods, incapable of looking convincingly reassured, and leaves quickly. </p>
<p>Aela will be in the basement, talking to Skjor. </p>
<p>“Ysgramor himself wouldn’t have the patience to deal with all the rabble around here,” She’s proclaiming, as he opens the door a crack. Skjor is pouring himself a drink from an ornate jug as Aela turns to the door, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?” she asks.</p>
<p>Dove gestures to the shield in his hands, and steps through the doorway to hand it to her, very much aware of Skjor’s eyes on his back, watching his every move. Her eyes narrow in on the steel he’s offering her, before they flash with recognition. “Ah,” he reaches to take it from him, “Good. I’ve been waiting for this.” She tilts her head at him in thanks. </p>
<p>All Dove can do is tilt his head back. </p>
<p>She does a double take, “Wait… I remember you. So the old man thinks you’ve got some heart, I guess.”</p>
<p>Dove scratches the back of his neck, a little sheepishly. He’d watched the fight with the giant in awe and fear, completely forgoeing participation to Aela’s disappointment. At that point he’d be walking for an hour and being a functional human (or dunmer) had been beyond his capabilities. He’s pretty sure he made a noise close to a squeak and fled. </p>
<p>Not a great first impression. </p>
<p>“You know this one?” Skjor asks, “I saw him training in the yard with Vilkas.” </p>
<p>“Ah, yes. I heard you gave him quite the thrashing,” Aela jokes, smirking mischievously at Dove, who shrugs, amicably. </p>
<p>“Don’t let Vilkas catch you saying that,” Skjor warns, serious as ever. Dove remembers, abruptly, their secret love affair. His heart sinks a little for Aela’s inevitable broken heart. </p>
<p>“Do you think you could handle Vilkas in a real fight?” Aela asks, suddenly interrogating him. Dove tenses, looking back and forth between the two, and winces a little, shrugging his shoulders again. <i> Probably Not. <i></i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why do you not speak?” She asks, and Dove frowns in frustration. “I’m pretty sure a daedric curse is the story I’m sticking to,” he tries to say, but of course it sounds like nonsense and both the warriors look taken aback and concerned. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Is that Dunmeris?” Aela asks Skjor, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes, and Skjor shakes his head. “Didn’t sound like it. Gibberish, really.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods as empathetically as he can. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“As long as he can fight, It doesn’t matter why he can’t speak,” Skjor asserts, clapping a hand on Aela’s shoulder. “I suppose you’re right,” she agrees, crossing her arms, “We welcome all types if they have the skill.”  </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods at the both of them, smiling in relief for what must be the first time today. “Here,” Aela says, and turns to the door, “Let’s have Farkas show you where you’ll be resting your head.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Farkas!” Skjor barks, and almost instantly the jingling of metal armor can be heard before the twin ducks his head through the door frame. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Did you call me?” He asks.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Of course we did, ice brain,” Aela insults, because this is when we as the protagonist are meant to learn that Farkas is the dumb twin to Vilkas’s smart twin. All it really teaches Dove is that Aela is bad at clever insults. Skjor seems just as unimpressed. “Show this new blood where the whelps sleep.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they are good people,” Farkas tells Dove, as they make their way to the barracks, “They challenge us to be our best.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove cannot respond, so when Farkas glances over at him he gives his biggest, most friendly smile. Farkas looks pleased, turning back, and after a beat he adds, “Nice to have a new face around. It gets boring here sometimes. I hope we keep you. This can be a rough life.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove lets the beast of a man talk at him, heart aching. He feels the desire to scream welling up in his soul. Farkas is his friend, and the man doesn’t know who he is. That hurts in a way Dove thought he was never going to hurt again.</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>haven't posted in a grip cus yknow. global pandemic. ahahaha</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He falls completely out of bed with a panicked yelp, and by the time he’s hit the floor Athis and Njada are already on their feet, swords drawn, searching for the danger. Ria sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes and asking, sleepily, “what’s going on?”. Torvar snorts, but does not wake. Figures. </p>
<p>Breakfast is lamb chop stew and honey mead, which only adds to Dove’s growing theory that honey seems to be the bread and butter of nord cuisine. He supposes without an abundance of granulated sugar, other sweeteners must do, but the inside of his own mouth is warm with days old syrup that makes him gag. He drinks several mugs of water to rinse the taste from his tongue, even after he’s full, spitting into the bushes back behind the pavilion. </p>
<p>Dove only has moments to stand idle in the great hall before Aela catches his eye and beckons him with a hand. He obeys reluctantly, keeping his exhausted sigh to himself. </p>
<p>“New blood,” she commands him, “What is your name?” </p>
<p>He blinks at her. “Dove,” he says, but as opposed to before, intentional speech curdles in his mouth like foul milk. Aela cocks her head, rolling her tongue around what he said. </p>
<p>“Bo Drem?” She asks, “A strange name indeed. Or are your words confused?” </p>
<p>He’s taken aback. He knows what she said is not Dove in Cyrodilic, but to his ears it echoes back with the meaning he’d meant, albeit a bit butchered. He nods distractedly, and looks around for a piece of parchment. Luckily, Skjor had left a ledger and quill a side table.</p>
<p>Rolling up his sleeve, he dips his finger in the ink pot gingerly. On his bare arm he draws out the characters D O V E and presents it to the frowning huntress. </p>
<p>Her face clears with recognition. “Dove,” She reads aloud with a smile, “That’s quite the moniker for a warrior. Are you sure you’re better suited as a bard, or a priest?” </p>
<p>He knows she’s just poking fun, but he shakes his head with determination. As much as he’d like to join the Bard’s College or the College of Winterhold, pretty songs and healing spells do not a dragonslayer make. </p>
<p>(Although it wouldn’t hurt to learn how to cast minor healing in a way that didn’t feel like he was siphoning the air from his lungs with a high pressure vacuum.)</p>
<p>She seems amused with him, in a condescending sort of way. “Very well then, young one. Before you can become a companion you must pass a proving test. Skjor will summon you when a hunt of apt difficulty is found but in the meantime,” She looks above his shoulder, thinking to herself, “yes, I have work for you.”</p>
<p>He leaves some gear behind before leaving for Rorikstead, taking only his bow and quiver, the contents of his hip satchel, and the smaller, 80 gold sack for emergencies. The 300 he’d gotten from chopping wood stays hidden under the mattress of his bed, tucked away from prying eyes (and hands). </p>
<p>He sighs. At the very least, if he dies on his first ever mission, he’ll be forgotten before he ever has the chance to establish any humiliating expectations of grandeur. </p>
<p>The trek takes the better part of the morning, but he’s past the point of worrying over the aching in his legs. He sips one of his excess healing potions he’d nabbed from his stash as he walks, and the throbbing subsides as his battered muscles knit together stronger at an accelerated rate. “If this is made of butterfly wings and warbler eggs…” he mutters to himself, a little hysterically.</p>
<p>He sees Erik working the fields, Britte and Sissel running up the crest of the hill shrieking with giggles, and the hanging sign of the Frostfruit Inn swaying in the breeze. </p>
<p>Lemkil is waiting impatiently outside of his house as Dove approaches. “You with the Companions?” he barks, and Dove nods. Scowling, he crosses his arms. “You took your fucking time.” </p>
<p>Ignoring him, Dove looks pointedly at the door. “A bear,” Lemkil tells him, irritated, “My good-for nothing daughter’s fault. The two of them stole a bear cub from the woods and tried to hide it from me in the basement, feeding it scraps. Now it’s mummy’s back, and she’s out for blood.”</p>
<p>Dove nods, and takes gentle steps towards the house, notching an arrow as he nudges the unlocked door open a sliver with the flat side of his hips, taking a peek. He can hear Lemkil behind him, grumbling inaudibly and putting some distance between himself and the building. Once Dove’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he wishes he could do the same. </p>
<p>The table has been upended. Giant claw marks rake through the wood like it’s tissue paper, legs of chairs snapped up and chewed upon, a whole bookshelf toppled to the floor. Broken shards of ceramic crunch silently underfoot as he steps fully into the house, plates and jugs and cups, all shattered to pieces. </p>
<p>The house is completely silent. Dove takes cautious steps towards the stairs down, praying the floorboards don’t creak. </p>
<p>The basement is nearly completely dark, lit only by a single flickering candle atop a dresser at the far end of the room. It casts shadows down on the room’s inhabitants, the humongous, slumbering grizzly bear and her cub, snoring away. The cub wiggles happily under her arm, pressing as deep into the fur as it can manage. The mama bear takes deep, peaceful breaths, calmed by the presence of her baby. </p>
<p>Dove looks around the room for something, anything that could constitute as a peaceful solution, and he sees the bowls, a slab of half-eaten mutton and a water to drink from. There’s a makeshift bed of blankets and sheets, and a little cloth doll tucked into the swaddle. The dragonborn’s heart aches. </p>
<p>“Here, here little guy,” he whisper-calls, shaking the bowl of meat towards the baby cub. Blinking awake, the little bear wiggles out of his mama’s arms to waddle over, sniffing the slab of mutton eagerly. Dove puts the bowl down, in the corner of the room, out of the way. </p>
<p>At the absence of her baby, Mama bear starts to rouse. He notches an arrow, pulling it taut, and exhales all his guilt right as he lets it fly. It sinks deep into the muscles around her neck and she rears back, letting out a bellowing roar. Before Dove can let fly a second arrow she charges him, sending him rolling to the ground with a devastating swat. Though his armor keeps his skin from piercing, Dove can feel his pulse in his ribs as they throb from the sheer force of the blow. He barely manages to keep rolling out of range of her next swipe and scrambles to his feet, the grizzly hot on his tail, notching another arrow and turning around to let it fly just above her head. It gives her enough of an advantage to ram right into him, sending him sprawling backwards, trapped beneath her. </p>
<p>It takes all his strength to shove her chin up, keeping her powerful jaws from the tender meat of his neck, and his other arm slaps around above him until he finds an arrow that had spilled from his quiver. He stabs blindly with the pointy end, and hears her roaring in pain. He joins her in her screaming as she slips from his grip, shifting her front paw to stand directly on his left shoulder, crunching bone and tissue alike, and clamping her teeth down hard on his hand. </p>
<p>For a second all he can do is scream blindly in pain, before the shock tumbles forward into adrenaline. Like a damn, magic floods through his bones and out through to his skin, setting him alight. Mama bear stumbles back, crunching his left ankle under her paw as she rears back, and he has enough of a state of mind to roll away while he has the chance, focusing hard on channeling all that energy into healing. </p>
<p>The pain recedes as his hands glow golden, and he picks up a handful of arrows and his bow from the floor as his backtracks away from the raging beast. He fumbles the first arrow into place as his back hits the stairs banister and fires it, just as she turns her head to face him. It sinks into her neck, just below her jaw and she roars once more, beginning another charge. His second arrow flies into her eye a second before she can reach him. Momentum abruptly stopped she stumbles back onto her hind legs, taking a shaky, unbalanced step backwards before slumping to the floor with a lifeless THUD. </p>
<p>Dove sighs with relief, his voice trembling. He drops his bow and pops open his hip satchel, relieved to see only one of his potions had shattered, leaving the leather sticky and wet. He drinks the other two down in one gulp like he’s a drowning man tasting air for the first time, savoring the wash of contentment that flows through his veins and rinses the pain away. </p>
<p>Whimpering startles him as he pants wetly into the room. The baby cub noses his mama forcefully, trying to get her to wake up. Dove blinks away the sudden clench of his chest, and grabs the blankets from his makeshift bed to swaddle it with. </p>
<p>“Shhhh, shhhh, I got you. I’m sorry baby, I got you,” he coddles, rocking the little one back and forth until the crying and struggling ceases. One hand holding the baby, he picks up the strap of his quiver and his long bow with the other, gathering up arrows between his fingers. He makes his way up the steps of the lodging, a little unbalanced, but otherwise alive. </p>
<p>Lemkil and his daughters are waiting outside when he emerges from the doorway. When Britte and Sissel see what’s inside the mass of blankets, they scream with joy and rush him, making grabby hands until Dove relinquishes his prize. </p>
<p>Their father is considerably less satisfied. </p>
<p>“I hired you to exterminate my bear problem, not fucking rescue it!” He bellows, face red as a tomato. Dove nearly cowers under the force of his anger, until he catches the twin’s own fear stricken faces, and his resolve hardens for their sake. </p>
<p>“But dad-!” Britte complains, and Lemkil marches right over and slaps her straight across the face, “Don’t you DARE talk back to me!” he thunders, and Dove’s patience plummets at breakneck speeds. He shoves Lemkil against the wall of his home with no hesitation, raising the pointed tip of an arrow to his throat to cut him off as he shouts, “what the-”. </p>
<p>Dove can’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. He can hear people mumble behind him, feel eyes on the back of his head, drawn by the domestic violence, lingering despite themselves, curious as to what he’ll do. The dragonborn knows his face is dead serious, and he lets the tip of the arrow dig into Lemkil’s adam's apple. </p>
<p>Like most abusers, the farmer doesn’t have the balls to face the consequences of his actions. It’s why he lashes out at children, after all. “Fine,” he spits, with false bravado, “You can keep the fucking cub. What do I care?” </p>
<p>Dove lets him go, and turns to check on the girls. They stand together, blocking the little bear from their father’s line of view, agape with surprise. “Really?” Sissel asks, voice like the hopeful chime of a bell.</p>
<p>Lemkil storms off without replying, flinging open the door to his house and slamming it closed behind him. Business in Rorikstead goes back to usual, it’s citizens and guards continue back on their way. Only Mralki and Erik linger from where they had been talking on the porch of the Inn. </p>
<p>Sissel and Britte hug his legs quickly, whispering “Thank you mister!” in their sing-songy voices before scuttling away, carrying their cub between them. Dove walks away, the sun high in the sky above his head, rewarding him with the warmth of an hour past midday. </p>
<p>The bartender waves him over before he can begin his hike back to Whiterun, and slips him a pouch of gold from the deck where he watched the incident play out. “Thank you,” he tells the dragonborn, simply, before turning back around and swinging open the door of his tavern. Erik stares at Dove, completely starstruck. </p>
<p>Dove can feel the weight of his gaze, and the confidence it adds to his step, all the way home. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The sun has started to droop in the sky by the time he enters the halls of Jorrvaskr, and he’s feeling far less invigorated. His shoulder and ankle twinge, something wrong in the way the joints set. Farkas helpfully lets him know that Aela is out back in the training grounds, but before he goes to meet her, Dove heads down to the barracks.  </p>
<p>Looking at the world through the limited lense of graphics and game models, it had been hard to tell how old anyone really was. In seeing the people of Skyrim with his own eyes, he shouldn’t be so surprised that the texture models (except they weren’t texture models, they were faces made of flesh and bone) were much more varied. </p>
<p>Erik, for one, looked all of 19 years old, which certainly put a guilty damper on advocating to spin him up in armor and send him off to fight deadly monsters. In real life, Aela looks more the same age as Skjor, mid 40s, maybe younger when you take into account the expected lifespan of a human in Skyrim compared to back home on Earth.</p>
<p>Farkas and Vilkas seem to be in their early 20s, same as Ria, though the way she’s treated makes Dove think she’s a bit younger than the rest. He’d hazard a guess that Torvar is in his mid 30s, give or take a year, same as Njada. Athis…. is an elf, and therefore beyond Dove’s guesswork, really. Kodlak, Vignar, Eorlund and Tilma were all well worn by age, perhaps in their 60s or older.</p>
<p>It adds a layer of understanding to their dynamic, as a group. Skjor and Aela treat the rest of the Companions like a litter of puppies, more of a danger to themselves than anyone else, really. Njada seems to be something of a mentor to Ria, and though she bends the knee to Aela of course, the two of them have a mutual rapport. Ria on the other hand seems equally terrified and in awe of the huntress, a feeling Dove can relate to very much. </p>
<p>When he walks into the barracks, dead on his feet, Torvar is pestering Athis as the other dunmer strips himself of armor. They seem to have a rapport too, if by rapport you mean Athis can be seen bragging to Torvar and Torvar can be found persuading Athis to get drunk together. </p>
<p>“Hey, new blood!” Torvar cheers, “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Torvar! How’d your first job go? Did you send them all to Sovngarde?”</p>
<p>Athis looks over, dressed down to his civvies, as if noticing him for the first time. “I suppose it’s well to have another dunmer around, even if it seems they’re letting anyone join these days. I am Athis.”</p>
<p>Dove is momentarily taken aback by the friendliness, but responds with a wince and a thumbs up. He’s sure his palpable exhaustion speaks for itself. </p>
<p>Torvar just laughs merrily, “Our work isn’t always as glamorous as the many songs and ballads make it out to be.”  </p>
<p>Athis cuffs him over the head. “As if anyone would write a ballad about you, oaf!” </p>
<p>Horrifyingly, Torvar seems to take that as a challenge. “Theeeere once was a hero named Torvar the blonde! Who came riding to Whiterun from riding your m-” </p>
<p>Athis punches him square in the jaw before he can finish, and Dove can’t help but bark a laugh as the two dissolve into a childish wrestling match. He grabs his 300 gold from under his bed in the confusion and makes for the Pavillion, smiling to himself. </p>
<p>Aela is shooting targets outside. Her body moves fluidly with the bow like it’s an extension of her arm. She cocks an ear when the door to Jorrvaskr opens and turns to face Dove, releasing the notched arrow and hitting the target in the bullseye without even looking. </p>
<p>“The whelp returns. I trust you have good news for me?” </p>
<p>Dove nods, stepping down off the pavilion and making his way to Aela’s side. Her eye catches on the large sack of coin and holds a hand out to take it when offered, looking at him, confused. “What’s this?” She asks. </p>
<p>Dove gestures with his bow, points at her, points at his head, and gestures with the bow again. When she doesn’t respond right away, he pokes the bag of coins, and he sees it click. </p>
<p>“You want lessons?” Dove nods fervently, “Ah, I see! How did you even get this much coin? Is it two hundred? Three?” </p>
<p>Dove holds up three fingers, nodding. Aela considers the bag, takes a moment to think, and Dove is worried she’ll reject his offer. Instead, she hands him back the money, her face unreadable. </p>
<p>“You will be my shield-brother, Dove.” She tells him, gently. “I don’t need money from you. I’d be more than happy to show you what I can.” </p>
<p>Dove is confused. He shakes his head and tries to hand it back to her, but she steps out of the way. Is she misunderstanding him? He needs training, not pointers. </p>
<p>Aela puts a guiding hand on his shoulder. “Come with me,” She tells him, and together they walk down into the basement of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas gives him a suspicious eye from the table where him and Farkas sit, while his twin waves at Dove supportively. </p>
<p>When Aela reaches her room she steps inside and comes back out a moment later with another, identical sack of 300 gold. “Here,” she hands the dragonborn the small satchel, which he catches on top of his other bag, “This is your reward for completing the animal extermination job. I’m sure the owner of that place is relieved. They certainly came through with the coin.” </p>
<p>Dove looks back at her, baffled. This seems to be going the opposite of how he’d meant it. </p>
<p>Aela tries smiling at him, though when the huntress smiles it’s even more intimidating than when she scowled. Dove feels like a rabbit being toyed with before being devoured by a hungry wolf. “Go nestle that away with the rest of your gear, and meet me back in the courtyard. We shall train until evening feast.” </p>
<p>And with that, Aela takes her leave, walking purposefully down the hall and away from the dragonborn. “Yay?” Dove cheers to himself, confused, before hurrying to obey. </p>
<p>Aela teaches archery very differently than Faendal had. Where Faendal had practised a very elven style, Aela had a much more nordic outlook on things. Where Faendal had focused on precision and speed, Aela was only impressed by sheer force and steadiness of his aim. By the time the sun had set, he believed he had a relatively robust skill set when it came to marksmanship, at the cost of any strength he had left in his arms after the long day.  </p>
<p>Tilma calls them in as the last light of day is slipping away, and it’s becoming difficult seeing his target in the darkness. Aela takes a seat at the long table in the center with the other circle members, Kodlak in the center, Skjor and Aela to his left, Vilkas and Farkas to his right. </p>
<p>Vignar and his manservant Brill sit together at the far left end of the table, with Eorlund completely ignoring their chatter in favour of food. The whelps fill the remaining space on the right wing, the only available spot the chair between the Eorlund and Farkas. Last night he’d been asleep the second his head hit the pillow and hadn’t joined the feast, but when Farkas catches his eye he gestures to the free spot beside him and ushers him over. Like he’d saved the seat for him. </p>
<p>“I’m surprised you’re not a smudge on the ground, after a whole afternoon of training with Aela,” Farkas jokes as a greeting, talking around the food in his mouth. Tonight’s dinner is stew, potatoes, Dove thinks, after a cursory investigation into the floating chunks. Several fresh loaves of bread waft warm, mouthwatering smells from the center of the table. Accompanying them are two roast chickens, half demolished, a gravy like dip of some sort, and a mystery red sauce that Farkas has scooped a large heaping of onto his plate, and is mopping up sloppily with a drumstick. </p>
<p>Dove gives the werewolf a pained, yet resigned look, and digs in himself. He realizes only now how hungry he is, having not eaten since breakfast. </p>
<p>Tilma comes by and fills his goblet with drink, despite Dove’s protest (he was getting quite sick of honey mead), but when he gives his cup a cursory sniff he’s surprised to find that the drink in his cup is wine. A fruity red, not too rich for his poor palette. </p>
<p>Wordlessly, Eorlund passes him the butter when he sees Dove searching for it, and for some reason that simple act of kindness nearly brings the dragonborn to tears. Feeling hysterical, he spreads some butter onto his bread and takes a testing bite. A little funkier then he was expecting, but not unenjoyable. Goat butter, maybe. </p>
<p>The din of the mess hall sinks into his skin as he adjusts to it, like the tickle of fur subsiding into warmth the closer you press. The hall itself is warm, yes, not just from the fire but from the crowd rejoicing within it, drinking, shouting, laughing. </p>
<p>It takes him a moment, until Dove realises that he feels safe, for the first time since waking up on the cold ground of a standing stone. If a dragon came swooping in through the dome roof of the longhouse, every single person within these walls would fight back to back with him, to ensure he lived. </p>
<p>Staying alive took up every inch of his brain. He felt like prey, trapped in a never ending cycle of urgent tasks to keep himself alive until sunrise the next morning. For the first time in days, Dove let his guard down, and he let himself smile. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Skjor approaches him before he can retire for the night, after everyone has either joined Torvar in taking their reverley out into the streets of Whiterun, or retired for the night. Vignar and Brill are still chatting up a storm as the younger nord collects plates with Tilma, cleaning up the night’s mess. </p>
<p>He’s beginning to think those two have a deeper connection than just master and servant. </p>
<p>“Ah, there you are,” he grouses, catching sight of the dragonborn. “Your time, it seems, has come.” </p>
<p>An ominous way to start any conversation. Dove cocks his head, obligingly. </p>
<p>“Last week a scholar came to us,” Skjor tells him, seriously, “He said he knew where we could find another fragment of Wuuthrad.” He shakes his head, scowling, “He seemed a fool to me, but if he’s right, the honor of the Companions demands that we seek it out.” </p>
<p>“This is a simple errand, but the time is right for it to be your Trial.” Skjor addresses him directly again, glaring into his soul. “Carry yourself with honor, and you’ll become a true Companion.”</p>
<p>Dove nods, a little terrified. Skjor seems satisfied, and harrumphs. “Farkas will be your shield-sibling on this venture, whelp. He’ll answer any questions you have. Try not to disappoint,” he growls, then adds, as an afterthought, “Or to get him killed.” Message delivered, he walks away. </p>
<p>Dove sighs, a little shaken. Is he ready to take on Dustman’s Cairn? He doesn’t know. The confidence he’d had when the room was full of compatriots and the energy was high has abandoned him. His arms feel heavy and his chest clenches with worry. </p>
<p>Dove strips to his linens and gets into bed, pulling the blanket over himself and rolling over to curl in, seeking comfort. Almost instantly exhaustion takes him, unaware he’s lost consciousness until he bolts awake in a cold sweat a few hours later. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>He’s running, running through a thicket of woods. He’s not being chased through, he is the chaser, hunting the small blur on all fours, bounding and weaving through the evergreen forest. The adrenaline beats hot through his bones like he’s on fire, and drips from the corners of his mouth, salivating. </p>
<p>The blur tries to duck around, out from under his hot pursuit but he anticipates it’s move before it has a chance to make it, skewering the tiny mass of fur with his claws. </p>
<p>He lifts the bear cub up to look at it, ears rushing, pounding, blood screaming in his head. The apex of the hunt rattles his bones like they’re the bars of a cage, his spirit screaming for release. He’s shaken, shaking, he falls to his knees, cradling the cub in his paws. </p>
<p>He tries to close his eyes but he can’t, he has no eyelids, the screaming in his head is inescapable, the thirst for blood will not be satisfied. The bear cub, no, the little girl in his hands - is she Britte, or Sissel? He can’t tell them apart - does not respond when he begs her for an end to all this, to free him from the Hunt. </p>
<p>He looks up. Hircine stands over his trembling form. He holds out a hand, he offers salvation. </p>
<p>“Dove, dove, wake up!” </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Ria stands over his bedside, looking alarmed. His hands are tacky with perspirant, and his toes feel shriveled in socks soaked through with sweat. His whole body is shaking, visibly. Excellent. He sits up on the edge of his cot quickly, wiping the tears from his eyes and trying to regain his dignity with marginal success. </p>
<p>“You were saying something, I wasn’t sure..” she peters off at a dismissive wave of Dove’s hand, and he gives her a less-than-reassuring thumbs up. The morning is cold, doubly so drenched in a thin layer of moisture, and Dove peels off his wet socks as soon as he’s sat up, Ria still hovering over him.</p>
<p>He pauses. It’s not like he has another pair. </p>
<p>“I’ll go ask around, see if anyone has spare clothes they’re willing to part with,” Ria reassures, scuttling off before he can convey to her not to bother. Torvar is still snoring away, but Njada and Athis are nowhere to be seen. Dove wonders what time it is, and hopes he’s not keeping Farkas waiting. </p>
<p>Ria comes back with a burgundy cloth shirt, rough beige pants, long underwear and scratchy grey woolen socks. “Tilma has a pile of laundry that nobody’s ever claimed, free for the taking,” she tells him, “Here, try it on.” </p>
<p>The shirt is big on him, but not anymore so then Hadvar’s linens he’d been wearing for so long, and the pants fit around the hips. Ria didn’t seem bothered by concepts such as “modesty”, or “privacy”, and she watches him nervously as he removes his shirt.</p>
<p>He’s so divorced from his physical body that he doesn’t even mind. Honestly, he’s as curious as she seems to be as to what he looks like. </p>
<p>“I’m Ria, by the way. Nice to meet you,” she doesn’t seem to care as he strips out of his linens and folds them on his cot. “I was the newest Companion, until you came along. I guess that’s ok. Just means I can show you the ropes!” </p>
<p>Dove nods at her. She stands there awkwardly as he laces up the borrowed pants. Suddenly, she blurts out, “is it true you’re cursed? That you can’t speak?” </p>
<p>He turns to Ria to see her beaming at him, excited. He nods, and she gapes. “Wow,” she says, “I thought Farkas was just gullible. How did it happen?” </p>
<p>He deliberates a moment, before he turns away and shrugs. He pops open the trunk at the end of his bed and takes out his rucksack, dumping the contents onto his bed. She seems to take his silence as an answer and sighs dramatically. </p>
<p>“Vilkas says you’ll be training with Aela once you’re a companion, since you use a bow. You’re lucky, she’s amazing.” He turns to her and nods, smiling weakly. She smiles back at him, reassured. </p>
<p>“It’s your proving today, isn’t it?” Dove nods, and Ria puffs out her chest a little. “Well, good luck brother. Show them the might of the companions!”</p>
<p>Once he’s got his scaled leather back on, and slipped the novice hood over his head, he starts packing up his things. He takes the bedroll, seeing as Dustman’s Cairn is a good distance away  and depending on how unscathed they are coming out of the ruin, Dove and Farkas might decide to camp for the night rather than attempt a trip back. He restocks his hip satchel with health potions, his heart sinking when he realizes he only has one left. </p>
<p>He counts his arrows. A dozen are left. His long bow is certainly worse for wear, the gouges from Vilkas’s blade still threatening to snap it clean down the middle. Hopefully, the draugr will have some good loot for the taking.</p>
<p>“I hope you’ve readied yourself,” Farkas growls at him moodily, arms crossed, leaning against one of Jorrvaskr’s pillars. Definitely kept him waiting. Dove grabs an apple from a bowl on the table, since he clearly won’t have time for breakfast, and gives Farkas a thumbs up. </p>
<p>“I’m told I’m to be your shield brother,” the werewolf reiterates, “Let’s see if you impress.” </p>
<p>The spike of anxiety firmly lodged in his gut twinges again, and he nods, unsure himself. This could be his ticket to losing the first safe lodgings he’s found. All of his plans, short term and long term count on this going right. Don’t fuck this up he thinks to himself, as Farkas pushes open the doors. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Dustman’s Cairn is northwest of Whiterun, across to Fort Greymoor then up across the plains. It’s hard to find, under the earth tucked away amongst the graveyard of Hamvir’s Rest, and the dragonborn must trek through the wilderness to find their prize. </p>
<p>Fortunately, all of that nonsense is made easier when you’ve done it a thousand times. </p>
<p>“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” Farkas asks, as they wander through the barren rocky flats, yellowing grass tickling the sides of their boots as they march. He doesn’t blame the Companion for his suspicion, there are absolutely no clear landmarks in sight, the road is so faded into the earth it’s almost invisible at times. </p>
<p>Finally, they come around the corner of a rocky lip, and they see the stone platform of Dustman’s Cairn. </p>
<p>“Huh,” Farkas comments, “You’ve got good direction.” </p>
<p>Dove smiles at him, a pang of sadness dampening his spirits knowing there’s nothing he can say. The rickety spiral staircase that brings them to the bottom of the stone bowl creaks like it’s about to collapse at any moment, but it carries both of their heavily weighted asses to the base without issue, and Dove thanks the nine. That would be an embarrassing way to fail your trial. </p>
<p>The metal doors to the Cairn open with a single push, and the two of them duck inside, eyes taking a second to adjust to the light. It smells of dust and death, a heavy, aging odor that lingers on the air. The dragonborn blinks a film from his eyes and coughs, a cloud of dust billowing up from in front of him. Farkas looks around, drinking in the sight. </p>
<p>“Looks like someone’s been digging in here,” He mentions, voice heavy. The reverberations of his voice echo down stone hallways, and they both freeze as somewhere, in the distance, Farkas and Dove hear the sound of a sword being drawn. </p>
<p>“Tread lightly,” Farkas warns him, as the pair of them creep forward. </p>
<p>There’s something lying prone on the stone floor, in front of the tomb in this first chamber. Cautiously, Dove notches an arrow and lets it fly, but when the thunk of the iron edge buries itself deep into paper-white gnarled flesh, the body doesn’t even flinch. Already dead.</p>
<p>There’s a chest beside the front table, in this room. He tries to open it once as they pass, but is met with a resounding rattle of it’s lock. He resolves to look up lockpicking once they’ve got the shard, and he’s back comfortable in bed. </p>
<p>Through the stone tunnel and down some stairs they find another draugr corpse, and he hears Farkas grunt, concerned. They keep moving into a burial chamber, and they hear their first signs of life</p>
<p>The first arrow he fires at the shambling draugr misses, as first shots tend to do. Farkas charges the zombie as Dove notches another arrow, fired instead at the armored shambler that steps from behind the rows of stacked corpses, eyeing Farkas’s flank. The first shot hits him between the shoulder blades and he goes down, but a third and forth draugr step from behind the rows too and the one Dove hits in the lower ribs does not drop to the floor instantly. Instead, it begins to charge. </p>
<p>Farkas turns around to cleave the offending fourth attacker just as Dove fires his second arrow, directly at the heart of the third. Aela was right in teaching him strength, since his arrows punch through the chests of these zombies like they’re made of butter. Farkas looks down at his handiwork, appreciative.</p>
<p>Dove’s aware that a large part of his accelerated learning must be the work of the thief stone, but he’s willing to not be modest this once. </p>
<p>They move forward, picking their way through the maze of mummified corpses. Dove collects his wayward arrow, and a few from the archer draugr’s quiver too. A door leads them down, through a curtain of spiderwebs (foreboding to say the least) and out to a grand staircase. </p>
<p>Dove remembers this room. The lower chambers have a pair of thrones and an enchanting table, but no clear way to progress forward. Farkas eyes the thrones, puzzling something over, while Dove takes a deep, calming breath, and steps into the side chamber with the lever. </p>
<p>He scoops the table of potions up, pocketing the smaller ones and swaddling the larger draught in his backpack. Then, when there seems to be nothing left to loot, he pulls the trigger. </p>
<p>Farkas’s head snaps up at the sound of a gate dropping shut. Dove watches him look over, and catch sight of the whelp grabbing hold of the bars of his new cage. If dunmers blush then Dove probably is. He’s embarrassed to have to do this, but it’s the only way forward. Farkas looks his situation up and down, frowning. </p>
<p>“Now look at what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he deadpans, and Dove half-grins, ashamed. “No worries,” Farkas waves him off, “Just sit tight. I’ll find the release.” </p>
<p>“Sure you will,” Dove sing-songs under his breath as Farkas turns away from him, drawing his sword and looking around, calling out, “What was that?” </p>
<p>Before he knows it the Companion is surrounded by Silver Hand goons, with weapons raised and pointed at his shield brother. Despite knowing how this ends, the dragonborn presses himself as close to the bars as he can, trying to offer moral support without speaking. </p>
<p>“It’s time to die, dog,” one taunts. Another joins in, “We knew you’d be coming here.”</p>
<p>One brandishing a warhammer cackles. “Your mistake, Companion.” The mass of them clang their weapons intimidatingly as the press Farkas into the corner. “Which one is that?” The one with the bow asks, jeeringly. </p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter. He wears that armor, he dies,” a woman replies, her voice full of malice. A shiver runs down Dove’s spine. “Killing you will make for an excellent story,” The final Silver Hand mocks darkly. </p>
<p>Dove feels as though he’s taken a step too far into the deep end. These people are murderers, happily so, and they’re about to be viciously torn apart for it. His heart pounds so loud in his ears, gripping the bars of his cage is the only thing keeping him upright. </p>
<p>With each sharp word, Farkas takes another step back until Dove can nearly reach him. He bangs on the bars of his cage with a fist impulsively, so that Farkas knows he’s there, on his side. </p>
<p>“None of you will be alive to tell it,” Farkas growls, and the clang of his sword hitting the stone reverberates around the chamber, as the werewolf starts to transform.  </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Farkas tells him, as he steps out onto bloodsoaked stone tiles. Dove is more than a little shaken, and he supposes it comes across on his face. Human murder is a contender he hasn’t really had to deal with yet. </p>
<p>He had not enjoyed it. </p>
<p>Farkas must read some of that from his expression, because he shifts from one foot to the other, awkwardly trying to explain. “It’s a blessing given to some of us,” He starts, “We can be like wild beasts. Fearsome.” </p>
<p>That’s an awful explanation, Dove wants to say. He looks up at Farkas, and then breaks away to go pick up Farkas’s sword from where it dropped. He needs two hands to hold the weapon, and it nearly unbalances him. The handle is warm with blood, from one of the Silver Hands, as is the side of the blade that had been engulfed in a puddle. Gingerly, he hands it back to Farkas, handle first, blade pointed towards himself. A symbol of trust. </p>
<p>Farkas looks down at the sword, then back to Dove, face as unreadable as always. “Thanks,” he says, tone as flat as always. But beneath it all, Dove thinks he understood the intention. Farkas is not the most expressive guy, but thanking him at all is a surprising move from the burly, big bad wolf. Farkas breaks the moment, turning to face the door.</p>
<p>“Eyes on the prey, not on the Horizon,” He parrots back, quoting someone. Maybe Vilkas? When Dove doesn’t step forward, Farkas turns back to clarify, “We should keep moving. Still the draugr to worry about.” </p>
<p>They carry on forward.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>“Be careful around the burial stones,” Farkas warns him, “I don’t want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back.”</p>
<p>They’d developed a system, fighting their way through the old nord tomb. Dove takes the first shot, hoping for a lucky snipe. Once the first arrow leaves his quiver, Farkas charges forward and makes as much noise as possible, hacking, slashing, drawing the attention away from Dove’s second arrow, which he aims at Farkas’s blind spots. If any baddies detach from the main group to charge Dove, Farkas dismembers them. If any baddies start landing hits on Farkas, they get an arrow through their heads. </p>
<p>He picks up a hunting bow from the first pair of silver hands they dispatch, strapping his old longbow to his back to take home and store away. For sentimental purposes. </p>
<p>His new bow does half the strength work for him, doesn’t shake nearly as much, and actually has a notch to line up his arrows with. All that, combined with the adrenaline, clearing the dungeon starts to feel fun. He tallies up combo points in his head, and lets out a loud whoop that nearly gets Farkas’s head chopped off when he goes 20 shots in a row without a single miss. </p>
<p>Farkas takes an arrow to the thigh and goes down in the vine covered chamber, where the ceiling caved in and painted yellowing stone golden with sun. They’ve been underground for a long time, in an hour or so the sky will start to pinken. Dove thinks all of this and some more hysterical thoughts the second he sees Farkas drop to the floor, brought to his knees. </p>
<p>The archer that dealt the leveling blow doesn’t get a moment to celebrate before the arrow aimed for her warrior friend gets sent to her instead, missing her heart by a mile and landing square in her left foot. She trips, falls head first off her stupid concealed platform, and breaks her neck on impact with the ground. It gives Dove some sadistic pleasure, which immediately transforms into guilt and disgust at himself, as well as panic as the spared warrior takes a swing at Farkas, still grounded. </p>
<p>He fires an arrow at the offending Silver Hand, but it simply deflects off his plate and gives him time to force Farkas to the ground with a second blow of his hammer, accompanied by a crunch of bone that sounds ten times louder to Dove’s ears then he’s sure it actually is. </p>
<p>With an anguished cry that only he understands as english, he fires a third, a fourth, a fifth arrow in rapid succession, successfully forcing the warrior to stumble back and focus his attention on anyone other then Farkas, who’s still spread eagle, groaning. As the Silver Hand raises his weapon with a battlecry and charges him, he also raises his helm, and Dove sinks an arrow right through the eye hole of a horned iron helmet. He doesn’t have time to be stunned amidst the panic, and rushes to the werewolf’s side. </p>
<p>"What... hey!” Farkas mumbles as he’s manhandled by Dove, trying to get a good grip to heal him. He grunts obscenely as the magic flows from the dunmer into his wounds, rousing back from his semi consciousness enough to mumble, “That felt good."</p>
<p>“Shut up,” he tells him, ignoring the inappropriately timed heart palpitations he’s having. He presses the hands of healing into Farkas’s side until he’s run out of magicka, and then he chugs a blue potion from tucked away in his bedroll and starts healing again. </p>
<p>Three minutes of panicking later, Farkas is well enough to bat away Dove’s concerned hands and mumble, “alright, alright, I’m good. You can stop.” He takes a sip of that tall regeneration draught they’d nabbed, at Dove’s behest, and then clasps his hand in Dove’s to be helped to his feet. </p>
<p>He stretches once all the way back, then all the way forward, then all the way to the sky, testing his range of movement. Hands on his hips, he announces, “I’m good to go. Let’s keep moving,” like he hadn’t just given Dove seven heart attacks and needed to account for several thousand gold coins in emotional liability charges and fines. </p>
<p>They scrape the bottoms of urns with their hands for gold, kick flimsy locks off with the heels of their boots, and pocket the results. By the time they’ve reached the final chamber, Dove’s coin purse feels full to the bursting, and there’s an easy smile sitting on Farkas’s face. Who knew grave robbing could be so much fun. </p>
<p>The final iron door opens with a creak that shoots panic right into the dragonborn’s gut. Once again his newfound confidence abandons him at the drop of the hat as they walk down the narrow opening to the final chamber room, lined with sarcophagi, waiting to jump out and charge at them. </p>
<p>Past the hallway of death opens up to a tiered staircase, short, flat steps with large landings leading up to an ornate altar, on which the shard of Wuuthrad will sit. Behind that, he sees the glowing outline of words of power etched into the large, curved stone wall. Beacons of flame frame the resting place of an army of draugr, and the goal to their quest. </p>
<p>He doubts he can convince Farkas to cut and run as soon as they get their hands on that fragment. Fuck, Dove thinks, decisively, and marches up the final steps.</p>
<p>The closer he gets to the wall, the less he can hear. Chanting, voices old and yet ethereally familiar, like the heavens themselves urging him forward, begging him take another step closer, closer, until he can make out the runes through their blinding aura. </p>
<p>“Fire,” echoes around in his soul, skittering from his eye sockets down his spine like a rat, rummaging around his inside leaving him feeling empty, and unsatisfied. Like an itch he can’t scratch, the word settles at the back of his temple. “Fire, Fire Breath.”</p>
<p>When he’s stared at the wall for longer enough, Farkas comes up behind him, concerned. “What does it mean?” He asks, which snaps Dove out of his reverie. He glances up at Farkas’s blank expressions and his lips curl up half-heartedly, patting him on the shoulder and turning his back to the word of power.</p>
<p>The shard of Wuuthrad sits innocently on the table, begging them to pick it up. Dove grabs an arrow out of his quiver and with the same hand, slowly extends out to grab the shard, inch by inch, a centimeter a second. </p>
<p>The moment his hand touches stone he shoves that thing in his hip satchel as fast as he can and notches that arrow, and rightly so, as before he even looks up draugr are already kicking down the doors to their not-so-eternal resting places. </p>
<p>Farkas draws his sword behind him, bellowing, “I’m going to crush you like a bug!” </p>
<p>That first arrow flies, embedding itself into the stomach of an armored draugr that just keeps charging him, unbothered by the metal sticking through his gut. </p>
<p>Dove notches another arrow, and takes a deep breath. For victory, or for Sovngarde, he thinks sarcastically, and lets the metal sing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>apparently all it takes for me to write 7.5k is the tiniest scrap of praise and encouragement. If i'd known that i would have surrounded myself with people who supported and appreciated me years ago! (this is a joke for legal purposes)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>oops i haven't posted in forever ahaha its not like im depressed or anything. haha i swear. anyways.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Farkas’s head is silhouetted by the setting sun when they emerge from Dustman’s Cairn. The waning light shifts over the wolf’s face as he bobs dramatically as he steps out of the tomb, his weight gingerly distributed. </p><p>From the bottom of the bowl Farkas looks up at the purple sky and sighs. “We should camp. Won’t make it back before dark like this.” </p><p>Dove nods, watching him limp up the stairs with trepidation. The adrenaline is fading from his body, his heart is beating almost painfully, his stomach twists itself in knots, he’s almost worried he’ll throw up. Farkas walking on a broken leg is not helping with that gut reaction. </p><p>Farkas sits down (finally) under the stone shelter of Hamvir’s Rest with a heavy clunk, hands undoing the buckles on his armor without much conscious effort. “Do you know how to make a fire?” Farkas asks. Dove shrugs and gestures vaguely with his hands. Farkas nods solemnly, “I’ll build it, you can light it.”</p><p>Dove fetches the biggest branches and chucks of wood he can find as Farkas methodically and artfully arranges them into something resembling a log cabin. Once Farkas growls at him, “Enough,” Dove changes course and beats two skeletons shambling outside their door back into the earth with a large stick. </p><p>They finish their tasks around the same time. When he’s done his task, Dove feels like every emotion and memory has been drained from him, a walking husk of a man who does not remember what he looks like even as he stares at his hands. </p><p>Farkas seems fine. Their fire crackles happily.</p><p>The wolf gives Dove simple commands, layout the bedrolls, get the meat from my bag (which is just unidentified salted meat wrapped in a cloth, of course, werewolf), get me two sticks and my knife. </p><p>“Vilkas usually sands them down,” Farkas tells him, skinning the sticks bare as the fire begins to soothe into embers. “I don’t bother. Watch for splinters though, when you eat.” Dove tucks his knees under his chin and sits as close to the fire as possible, staring into the void of flame and not producing a single coherent thought. He drifts, losing time to the glowing embers.</p><p>It’s only when he finishes his portion of charred rabbit that he snaps back to reality. Dove blinks and the sun has nearly set completely, the first stars blinking into view. </p><p>“You should have your own bowl,” Farkas is telling him, gnawing through his third helping of rabbit, “In your pack. Stew is good for camp meals.” Dove watches with a newly critical eye as Farkas devours the mostly raw animal in a few bites. He’s still too dazed to really register it. </p><p>Farkas adds some from their pile of tinder, relighting the flames once the sky is inky black. Dove watches as Farkas meticulously cleans his sword with a cloth and some type of oil. The dragonborn finds himself unwilling to move away from the flames as they soak some feeling back into his hollow bones.</p><p>Once the sword glistens like a diamond, and the wolf has stretched all the way to the sky, he asks Dove, “Mind taking first watch? I need to rest my leg.” </p><p>Dove shrugs, and nods. He doesn’t move from his spot, spaced out and gazing into the unending flames, but a few minutes later he can hear the first rumblings of snores. </p><p>Somewhere, in the far distance, under the shroud of complete darkness, he can hear the cries of a dragon echoing down the mountains. </p><p>--</p><p>Dove is woken up unceremoniously, with a boot in his side. “Come on,” Farkas tells him, “It’s past dawn. We should pack up and go.” </p><p>The hike back to Whiterun is grueling, exhausted from the endless battles of yesterday and half a night’s poor sleep. It’s early, early enough that Dove can still feel the dew in the air, cool and clinging to his bare skin. </p><p>“Don’t tell the others,” Farkas says suddenly, as they approach Whiterun’s southern wall, “About the wolf. I told Vilkas I wasn’t going to transform anymore.”</p><p>The dragonborn looks at him with a sleepy, half-hearted curiosity, but he shrugs and nods in assurance anyways. He’s effectively mute, it’s not too much of a burden to stay silent. </p><p>The townspeople goggle at them as they walk through the streets of Whiterun, Farkas is a renowned companion after all. Vilkas watches as they approach, and he calls out to them from the top of Jorrvaskyr’s steps, “We’ve been awaiting your return”</p><p>Dove glances at Farkas, who moves past him to climb the rest of the steps and join his brother. He passes Vilkas with a nod and walks around the side of the mead hall, towards the training grounds behind the pavilion. Dove turns his eyes back to Vilkas, and nods shakily. </p><p>Vilkas, though certainly not friendly towards Dove, is entirely professional. “Come,” he beckons, “Follow me.” </p><p>The circle awaits him, in the center of the training grounds. Dove’s eyes nearly glaze over the others tucked away under the shadow of the pavilion, Ria, Torvar, Athis, Njada. The circle appraises him with equally unreadable looks on their faces. </p><p>Dove, for a moment, is irrationally terrified. Is this how it ends? Will they all see, here, how he’s been lying to them all? How out of place he is? How he doesn’t belong? What will they do to him, he’s too afraid to even consider it. What will they say? That almost panics him more to consider. </p><p>Kodlak raises his arms to the sky, and beckons Dove forward with a genuine smile. “Brothers and sisters of the Circle,” he calls, “today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold!” </p><p>Dove stands rigidly, paralyzed under the sheer intensity of the circle’s combined gaze. <i> Predators <i>, his brain whispers at him. He feels like a deer caught in headlights. He feels like a rabbit cornered. They know. They must know. </i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his valor,” Kodlak continues, “Who will speak for him?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us,” Farkas responds, resolute. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Kodlak smiles at the twin. “Would you raise your shield in his defense?” He recites, words he’s probably said many dozens of times before. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us,” Farkas replies, and the sincerity of the words is startling. They’re just words, part of the ceremony, but Farkas says them like he means them. It frightens him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“And would you raise your sword in his honor?” Kodlak asks. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas’s voice is strong and steady, “It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Kodlak grins, “And would you raise a mug in his name?” Somewhere behind him, Torvar whoops. Dove tries to crack a nervous smile. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in his stories.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Kodlak nods, “Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. His heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers,” The old man raises his arms again, calling out to the sky, “Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The chorus of the Circle’s voices calls back in perfect harmony, “It shall be so.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Ria and Torvar whoop behind him. The circle dismisses, acknowledging him with a nod and returning to their duties. Farkas and Vilkas head for the mead hall together, talking in low voices.<br/>
For some reason Dove’s heart sinks a little as they walk away without a glance. It was just a stupid pre-written speech. They’re not his friends now or anything. Dove’s head follows them until he realizes Kodlak has approached out of the corner of his eye and nearly jumps out of his skin. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The old man smiles at him, clasping a hand to his shoulder, “Well boy, you’re one of us now. I trust you won’t disappoint.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods and tries to grin, unconvincingly. Kodlak returns the gesture and walks away, carrying himself with the utmost confidence and power. Dove is dazed by his presence. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He dons his scaled armor once again that evening with immense reluctance, but it seems customary among the companions and he’s not eager to tred on the unspoken social rules of this world he is an imposter to. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>At the very least, Dove lets down his hood and blindly combs his hair behind his ears - he stumbles over the feeling of his own pointed ears for a moment as he does, pervasive wrongness blooming in his gut as his fingers catch the tips. He stares at his hands for a moment, scolding his own ridiculousness, before huffing and ascending to the congratulatory masses that await. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The feast is magnificent, at least by the expressions on the companion’s face around him it must be. However uniquely seasoned the salt-rubbed goat and broiled beef are, it is not a noticeable change in quality to Dove. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Perhaps it’s spicy, which would explain the way his brothers in arms are throwing back mead like it’s water. Dove wouldn’t know - he assumes his capacity for spice is inarguably more developed then a gaggle of pasty nords who’ve never heard of a pepper. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>As plates empty and ale flows, seats are deserted and the warriors start to mingle. Euorland is the first to retreat when the sky is black and the last of the day’s warmth is smothered by cold night, but Kodlak and Skjor follow soon after, Aela lingering conspiratorially, but vanishing as soon as another spectacle catches Dove’s eye. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vignar, the last elder at the feast, lingers. He and his manservant Brill migrate into Euorland’s abandoned seat to strike up a conversation with the twins, but Dove, trapped awkwardly in the middle, is completely ignored. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He tries to keep his head down and eat in silence, but Vignar seems to find a humor in this that makes Dove want to curl up and die.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“How much can he understand anyways? Real language, I mean.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas doesn’t stop chewing to look up at him, face blank. Vilkas leans forward in his chair to reply down the long table, “He doesn’t speak any modern tamrielic, but Aela and Kodlak can vouch for his competence in the written word.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove looks at his plate rather than either of them, resisting the urge to excuse himself from this odd conversation before it nosedives further south. Even that small reprieve is denied him when Vignar snaps in his face, jolting him to attention, forcing him to acknowledge the ugly smile on the old man’s face. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Hello,” He coos, catching Dove in vicious eye contact, “Hello? Nod if you can understand me, elf.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove does not nod. He’s not in the mood to subjugate himself to an insufferable prick. He rolls his eyes with confidence he doesn’t actually possess and turns back to his plate. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vignar scoffs, “Does it even know where it is? Elf, do you understand what you’ve signed on for? What you’ve promised? Or were you too lazy and uneducated to understand, as I suspect you were.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The people around them keep talking and eating. Dove seems to be entirely on his own for this one. He could punch the old fuck in the face, but he’s not sure he’d win that fight. The dragonborn instead makes pointed, deeply disdainful eye contact, and flips him off.   </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The gesture is received with scandalized shock. “There’s no need to be uncivilized,” Vignar balks, “I asked a perfectly reasonable question! Do you even know who I am? Or are you too far gone you no longer recognize your betters?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove startles as Farkas’s chair scrapes suddenly and the wolf gets to his feet, Vilkas’s imploring use of his name to calm him lost under the noise. The wolf looms over Vignar menacingly and squares his shoulders, “You better watch your tongue, old man. If you attended our ceremonies, then you’d know I just swore my blade to him.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vignar rolls his eyes, unaffected by Farkas’s peacocking. “My dear boy, I’m far too busy to attend every party you lot throw. What’s he then, your third whelp of the season? Asking me to attend a ceremony when he’ll be dead in a fortnight,” He scoffs, “let alone a ceremony for an elf!”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’m not interrupting something, am I?” Dove nearly jumps as Athis interrupts the argument, words dripping with malice. Torvar blinks oafishly from behind him, looking disoriented and uncharacteristically quiet. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Brill counts the angry warriors around them and quickly comes to the conclusion that they are outnumbered. “Master,” He insists. “it’s time we retire, don’t you think?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vignar glares daggers at the elf in hot silence for a tense moment before he sighs. “Yes, I suppose so,” the nord surrenders, throwing back the rest of his drink and getting to his feet. “No, no I don’t need help you fool. I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes Master,” Brill obliges, shooting Dove a dirty look over the old man’s shoulder. Dove flashes him a weak smile. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Athis doesn’t move or speak, eyes following Vignar all the way to the grand doors of the Hall and into the inky black night, shoulders ratcheted up to his ears and eyes narrowed. Torvar is the first to break the tense stalemate, slurring casually, “We’re taking the revelling out into the streets, if you want to join.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Farkas,” Vilkas says suddenly, surprising them both, “you should go with them, brother.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Ria appears suddenly, popping over from another conversation, “Oh, Njada, you have to come too!”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas scowls as the whelps gather around him, saddled with babysitting them. Dove tries to give him a reassuring smile, but the twin isn’t looking at him. Is ignoring him. When Dove looks around, not a single person pays him a glance. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Where to,” Farkas demands of Torvar, who looks entirely too self satisfied at the party he’s gathered. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Oh, the usual. The Bannered Mare’s serving drinks tonight, if we feel like stretching our legs we might make it down to Honningbrew before Sabjorn boards it up for the night.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas crosses his arms, but he can’t come up with an argument. “Okay then,” he agrees, “But you’re waking up for morning training whether you like it or not. All of you.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Part of him wants to slip away to his quarters as the party prepares to descend on the streets of Whiterun. It feels only just to stay behind, considering he is such an outsider after all. He’s certainly bringing the party down. Regardless, he tells himself, he’s tired. It’s been a long week. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>But Torvar hooks one arm through his arm and drags him along, and Njada shoves him in the back to keep him from toppling over as he does, and Ria is telling him another story of her victories, Farkas and Athis just behind him, hands making contact with his shoulders to steer him where he needs to go. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove knows he’s getting special treatment, and that they don’t really care about him as much as they’re pretending to in the moment. They’re just being kind. Why would they care? What reason has he given them? </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He hates himself for preening under the attention regardless. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The Bannered Mare is loud and packed and confusing, and the companions are quickly separated in the throng. There’s people Dove recognizes and people he doesn’t, and after Torvar reappears holding a bottle of Argonian Ale and telling Dove to take a shot things start getting harder to comprehend much faster. Dove chooses to stay close to Torvar, who jumps around in a circle to a high energy fiddle and sloppily coerces the dragonborn into doing the same.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“C’mon,” he shouts over the music, “This one’s my favorite! You’ve gotta dance!” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove can’t distinguish this fiddle tune from the others that Mikeal had played tonight, but Torvar takes his hands regardless and spins them in a circle until Dove nearly pukes down the front of Saadia’s dress.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The tavern is singing, and shouting, and Dove knows that even if he could speak he wouldn’t be heard so he doesn’t bother to try. Torvar bounds face first into a beam and topples over, and as the crowd parts for Dove to pick him back up Ria and Njada spot them from the other side of the central fire pit. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Torvar, upright and energized once more as a new song begins, insists on teaching Dove a dance he demonstrates with vague and somewhat suggestive hand motions. As Njada and Ria make their way around the fire to join them, Njada glaring daggers at Torvar’s hands, the music cuts off abruptly just as the first chorus begins.   </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>A nearby dancer nearly collides with him as they spin to a stop, and Torvar shoves them back reflexively. Dove watches his face scrunch in confusion as he peaks over the crowd to see the drama unfold. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Torvar laughs and says something Dove doesn’t catch, grabbing the dunmer by the wrist and dragging him through the throng of people. When they reach the other side Athis is hollering curses at the crowd while Farkas drags him bodily from the building.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Torvar and himself follow outside, Ria and Njada just catching up as the warmth of the hearth abandons them to the chill of the Skyrim night.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Njada punches Torvar in the shoulder and he drops Dove’s wrist like he’s been burned, putting his hands up in surrender. She eyes him darkly, putting a firm hand on the dunmer’s shoulder and steering him away.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas takes the lead after their cheers for Honningbrew mead echo off the sleeping walls of Whiterun, marching the giddy pups down to the gates. They stumble down the roads, pointedly ogled by the guards they pass by. Njada and Athis trap Dove between them, each with a cautionary hand on each of his shoulders. Athis rants about the rude nord he’d nearly brawled, to which Njada responds with vocal grunts of disgust. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Honningbrew is a golden beacon on the horizon, and cheers go up again. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Somewhere between the keg they manhandle from Sabjorn, the last of the argonian ale, Njada and Athis brawling, Farkas and Ria arm wrestling, and Torvar writing a song, Dove falls asleep. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>If he’d been conscious he would’ve seen the way all the companions fell silent when Ria cried out, “He’s asleep! Look!”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He would’ve seen the way Njada and Torvar fought over who’d carry him home until Farkas stepped in and picked him up. Athis scolding Farkas for running him too ragged that he would just pass out like that, has he no shame. Ria tucking him into bed back at Jorrvaskr. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove doesn’t dream that night. It feels like for a second, the universe forgets about him. It’s a glorious feeling. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Breakfast is a nearly somber event. Athis throws a jug of water on Torvar to wake him up and together the whelps trek up to the mess to put some food in their bellies. Njada steps outside to throw up, at one point, but otherwise they eat in near total silence. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The circle enters the Hall through the back doors from the training grounds around mid-morning, Farkas looking entirely sober. Damn werewolf. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Come now,” Skjor calls out, “Up you go everyone. Get off your asses, all of you.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The whelps groan collectively, but abandon their plates and stand without much complaint. None of their stomachs were really up for breakfast anyways. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Athis. Njada. We’re going beast hunting. Get your gear.” The eldest whelps nod and walk together to the quarters, heads held high. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“The rest of you should be training. Speak to Farkas if you are recovered enough to take a job.” With that cordial command, he dismisses them with a nod and walks to the front door. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Torvar picks up his heavy longsword and approaches Farkas, who nods at him. Ria joins Vilkas at his side and cocks her head at Dove, rooted in place. Aela bares her fangs at him and his heart jackhammers off tempo.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Ducking his gaze, he approaches her to stand at her side. When he glances up at her, her terrifying smile has morphed into a frown. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Where is your bow?” She asks, and Dove feels the color drain from his face. When he’d donned his armor this morning his arms had felt as though they were weighed down by cinderblocks. His left arm in particular had ached from shoulder to wrist in a piercing way that refused to fade.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“In my quarters,” he replies shamefully, then snaps his mouth shut. He’s speaking gibberish. He squeezes his eyes closed and curses himself, then points at the floor beneath his feet.<br/>
Aela nods. “Go retrieve it, then,” she says in a dark, commanding voice. Dove swallows, imagining the afternoon of agony he’s about to have. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Wait!” Ria shouts, looking fiercely between Aela and Dove. When they both turn to look at her face colors nervously, but she persists, “If you’re training Dove today then I think you should train me today instead, sister! Vilkas and yourself can swap!” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas cups his face in his hand in exasperation, “Ria, we’ve talked about this. Aela does not train in longswords.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I know!” Ria declares, determined, “I just really think our styles are similar! And that it would be … um… very educational! Brother!” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Please stop shouting,” Vilkas begs, deadpan. He already sounds defeated. Aela quirks her eyebrow, looking incredibly amused and more importantly distracted.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“You have asked to train with me, shield-sister?” Aela asks smugly. Ria’s face is bright red, but she nods with confidence. Aela smiles viciously, “I would be honored to train you in what I know of blades. I’m sure such knowledge could come of use to you.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas watches with disdain as Aela covets his starstruck protege before turning to Dove and sighing. “Come,” he beckons, and follows them out the doors. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It’s significantly warmer, this morning, warmer then it’s been at all since Dove arrived in skyrim. Torvar is clumsily charging a bored looking Farkas while Aela hands a blushing Ria one of her twin daggers. Vilkas rolls his eyes at both of them. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The twin marches Dove to the center of the round, turning to face him. “I’m no marksman,” he states, “We’ll train in hand-to-hand, in the case you are ever disarmed.” He waits for dove to nod. “Good. Take off your tunic.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove blinks at him, stalling for a second until he realizes Vilkas is serious. He scrambles at the buckles at his hips and the large belt to remove the scaled armor, laying it out on a haybale as Vilkas removes his pauldrons. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove turns back around just as Vilkas is pulling his tunic over his head in a glorious flourish, pecs and abs rippling. The dragonborn looks down at his own body and back at Vilkas. The idea of taking his tunic off next to this man-wolf becomes incredibly unappealing very suddenly. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas looks over at him and he starts anxiously fiddling with the ties of his tunic before the twin can call him out on his rude gawking. He flings the shirt off his body like he’s ripping off a bandaid, tucking it in with his leathers and looking anywhere but at his own naked blue chest. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>If Vilkas is off-put or amused by his body in any way, he’s a spectacular actor. The twin gestures Dove closer and puts his hands on Dove’s bare shoulders. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Grab hold of my shoulders,” he demonstrates, “like this.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hesitantly, Dove obeys, finding a good grip on Vilkas. The twin glares at his left shoulder and grimaces when Dove adjusts it to soothe the pain. Belatedly, Dove realizes the wound Vilkas had given him on his first day had scarred over. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Don’t attempt restoration on your wounds if you don’t know how,” The wolf scolds, as if Dove is a petulant child, “ you will do permanent damage by mis-healing them. Use potions instead, or see a healer.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Mis-healing them? Dove glances down at his shoulder in worry. Is that why it still hurts? He hadn’t known mis-healing was something he had to worry about. All the times he’d healed others with his sloppy restoration flash before his eyes. He nods, ashamed at himself, and vows to learn how to heal properly at some point. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas accepts his silent apology and tears his eyes away from the scar. “Now, shift your weight to your feet and ground yourself…” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Training with Vilkas is hard, but a summer holiday compared to training with Aela. He spars with Dove for hours, shouting at him to fix his stance over and over and over. Vilkas has Dove in a headlock when Tilma comes out onto the pavilion and calls them in to eat at midday, and the part of Dove that is fearing for his life dies a little when that does not make Vilkas let go. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas jostles him. “Come on. Get me off. Focus.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove can’t focus, there’s a beefy arm around his neck and he’s trapped. He can’t breathe all the way, his windpipe restricted and he feels himself starting to hyperventilate. He can’t get out. He can’t get out. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Focus!” Vilkas shouts, “Who’s grounded right now?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas is grounded. Vilkas has the balance, Vilkas has the control.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Now get me off balance,” Vilkas commands him angrily, as if reading his mind. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It’s easier said than done. Dove has been frozen in panic too long to use Vilkas’s momentum against him - the wolf is rooted, 100% and completely. He could set himself on fire, seeing as that tended to work in removing himself from bad situations, but Vilkas wasn’t a bad situation. He can’t imagine giving your mentor third degree burns is behavior that fosters respect between two people. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove adjusts his own stance to try and get the higher ground but it’s impossible, Vilkas is a hard wall in the way. In a stroke of impulsive curiosity, Dove drops his weight to the ground to try and tug Vilkas lower. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>As he’s falling and Vilkas gets drawn into his momentum, it’s almost instinct to throw the twin’s weight over his shoulder and onto the ground. Vilkas hits dirt with a heavy grunt and Dove stomps on the wrist still holding him as he scrambles to his feet. Somewhere behind him another companion whoops half-heartedly before retreating into the Hall. The courtyard is empty as Dove helps Vilkas to his feet. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“We need to work on your reaction speed,” Vilkas tells him, “Your opponent won’t give you the time you need to catch your breath.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods, embarrassed. Vilkas slaps his arm in a bonding sort of way, giving one last disparaging look to the puckered scar. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Go and eat, then, and don’t take a job today. Stretch your muscles before you injure yourself anymore, whelp.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Unsure if that was an insult or not, Dove watches Vilkas walk away around the side of the Hall and down the steps to Whiterun. Vilkas might think he’s kind of pathetic, but at least he sort of doesn’t hate him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He heads the wolf’s advice and doesn’t ask Farkas for a job that afternoon. Instead, he takes his coin to the streets and restocks on potions and arrows, sells the gems and jewelry he’d collected. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Njada follows him, for some reason, back already from her hunt and even more sour then usual. She glares at his back the whole time and scowls when he gets overcharged at Belethor’s. He’s not sure exactly why she’s following him, since she didn’t offer an explanation and he’s too terrified of her to bother to ask, but he decides to just accept that she’s bored and seeing him embarrass himself with his goofy charades must be gratifying or amusing. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Belethor has inks and quills, and one extremely overpriced stack of letter parchment. Dove jingles happily with his purchases back up the road to Whiterun, his surly shadow just a step behind him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The guards as he walks past the Gildergreen must sense his good mood and find it repulsive, because they call out, “Hey, elf!” just as he feels like spring come back into his step. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The pair of them stop as the guard gives Dove a once over. To Njada, he goads, “New companion, eh? didn’t realize you lot were so desperate to replace the boy.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>If looks could kill, the guard would be dead three times over. “It’s too hot to be answering stupid questions,” Njada spits. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“If I’d known the companion’s standards were so low, I’d have joined up myself!” Another, somehow stupider guard joins in. Dove swallows as Njada’s face hardens like steel. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“You’d have to be victorious during your proving to become a companion. Want to give it a go right now, softgut?” Njada shifts into a fighting stance, hand at the hilt of her blade. Dove can’t see the guard’s faces through their helms, but their posture goes ramrod straight. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Easy, companion. We were just teasing! No harm done,” the first guard insists, backing away. Dove can’t help but look at the way Njada’s shoulders are taut with anger and think some harm may have already been done indeed. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Njada watches the guards go with a thunderous scowl on her face. “I heard you hurt your arm,” she says out of the blue. When Dove nods she scowls and snaps, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” before storming away and up the steps. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove stares after her in absolute bafflement until he feels a little hand tug at his sleeve. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>A little imperial girl looks up at him with childish determination on her face. “Mister companion, sir, do you think you could give me just one gold please?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The dragonborn blinks down at her, and calculates how much gold he has left in his hip pouch - 70 gold isn’t that important to him, but it would be to Lucia. He unties the pouch from his hip and holds it out for her silently. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>She goes wide-eyed and looks up at him in doubt. Carefully, she takes the coin purse from him and opens it in awe. “Thank you sir! Divines bless you sir! You’re the best!” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove looks up at Whiterun Hold in contemplation as she scampers away. He’d have to pick up the dragonstone to get Breezehome, and dragons would start attacking. Maybe Falkreath? Lakeview manor? Somewhere where she could rest her head out of the cold?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He shakes himself of the fantasy. She’s self-sufficient without him, and he’s not the father she’d want or need. His life goal is to leave skyrim, leave all of this behind. There’s no way he’s settling down. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He tells himself that, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about it. It doesn’t stop him even in the slightest. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>There’s no feast tonight, as at least half the companions are away hunting. Farkas, Njada, Athis, Aela and Kodlak sit alone at the great table, so Dove sits himself next to Farkas again and tries not to read too much into the way Farkas smiles at him when he takes his seat. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“‘eard you ‘urt yer arm,” Farkas says through a mouthful of beef, “Did’ya stretch?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove finds himself amazed that any secret can be kept at all amoungst these people if “Dove mis-healed his arm,” had made the rounds in less then a day. He nods, rolling his eyes, because he did stretch once he’d put away all his things, thank you very much.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas shrugs and goes back to doing unspeakable crimes to his dinner, and Dove eats in companionable silence. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When he retreats to his quarters he only has a moment before Tilma knocks on the doorframe, startling him. She smiles kindly, asking, “I was hoping to check on you dearie, do you mind?” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He shakes his head and she steps into the room, bent over a little and hobbling. “Well, since I don’t believe we’ve met dear, my name is Tilma. Don’t worry, I’m no one important, just the caretaker. I’ve been tending to the warriors of Jorrvaskr for as long as I can remember.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods and tries to smile back at her, though it feels a bit nervous. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“One of your shield brothers was worried about your bow arm, so he suggested I take a look at it.” She tilts her head, “Do you know where the bathing room is?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He frowns and shrugs in confusion. “Come,” she says, “It’s just across the hall, follow me.” </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>To Dove’s surprise, she’s right. Across the hall from the quarters is a sliding screen door Dove had never seen before, which she opens into a small bathing room with a large tub, a water pump, a shelf, a bench and a bucket. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i> Was this in the game? <i> He doesn't remember it, but he doesn't have time to ponder before Tilma’s preparing him a bath and he’s being ordered to strip for the second time today. </i></i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Being pampered, while embarrassing, is nicer than Dove would ever admit. She uses a bit of magic to stoke the coals under the bath and heat the water, while he sits with a towel across his lap and lets her massage poultice into his arms. The steam from the bath mixed with the herbs and oils fogs up his brain pleasantly, to the point where he’s almost asleep. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>As Tilma helps him into the bath, he looks down at himself in the water and nearly trips. His body isn’t the one he’s used to, it’s blue, for starters, and for some reason that still keeps surprising him. Making him feel vaguely nauseous and wrong. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>It manages to spoil his relaxed state of mind, but his body still relaxes in the hot water. This is the first time he’s bathed himself in a week, so he scrubs his arms of dirt and sweat and dunks his head under the surface, keeping his shoulder above the waterline. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>He wonders if everyone thinks he’s weak now, needing so much special treatment over a training wound. He almost wishes Vilkas had never seen it, that he could play it off like he’d healed and moved on the way the rest of them did. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Tilma comes back over with her finished concoction and stands behind him, guiding his shoulders and head back so his hair dipped beneath the water. Another person’s hands in his hair is heavenly enough that he stops thinking, stops doubting, and lets her scrub away the grime and blood. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>“They’re all very worried about you,” She tells him out of the blue, “but you should know, it’s nothing to do with you. Many of our youngest, newest members having been leaving us too early, in the past year. The work of the companions is more dangerous than ever.” </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Dove keeps his eyes closed, holding a breath. “Vilkas was so angry with Kodlak, for recruiting someone so inexperienced,” She continues, “He was certain they were leading you to an untimely death.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Gently pushing on his shoulders, Tilma guides his head under the water and rinses off the soap. “He and his brother come to speak to me, for guidance. If you are ever lost, I could offer you some guidance too.” She takes a comb and begins to comb out his hair, “If you are half as stubborn as those silly boys, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Dove wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping and shaking from the nightmares the next morning to clean and dry clothes sitting on the end of his bed. He holds them close and smells the lavender, and is unable to accept the feeling of belonging in his chest as real.</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>(crawls out of my fucking hole) (places this chapter down) (crawls back into my hole for another 6 months)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On a day like any other, Miraak finds something in the waters of apocrypha. Caught in the webs of the Quagmire, Vaermina’s domain, it seems to have struggled its way all the way here, it’s little head poking out of the inky black waves.</p>
<p>“Hmm? And what is this?” He chuckles, intrigued. “A dreamwalker in Herma Mora’s domain? How does an insignificant shade get lost between planes of oblivion...” </p>
<p>Dove kicks and flails against the pull of the web, desperately fighting to keep his head above the inky black sludge and not get dragged back into the Quagmire. The sea’s taste is of raw meat, bloody and hot. “Help… me…” He begs, incoherent and terrified.</p>
<p>An eternity of agony later, spectral hands plunge into the waters and he feels the coil of web snap as his naked body is birthed from the basin of apocrypha. Wrenched free, three ghostly figures drag him bodily onto the oily iron grating. Dove takes shaky breaths, dream madness spinning his head on it’s shoulders as he attempts to regain his bearings. </p>
<p>“What foul tongue is it that taught you to speak such words,” a voice demands of him, and Dove looks up to see the point of Miraak’s sword hovering dangerously above his throat. He swallows, and tries to find his wavering voice. </p>
<p>“Thank… you… for rescuing… me… Miraak....” </p>
<p>He is deafened by a shout that comes tearing from all around him, crackling in his ears like static. When he opens his eyes again, Miraak’s ancestral mage armor radiates from him with terrible beauty. </p>
<p>The first dragonborn demands, “Who. Are. YOU.” </p>
<p>“Dovahkiin,” Dove admits, as if compelled, “I am Dovah. Dove. The last dragonborn.” </p>
<p>Dove hears the noise of running water, loud enough to wake him up. “Don’t you DARE-” Miraak commands before Dove’s ears ring with silence, and the darkness of his own closed eyelids is all he sees. </p>
<p>He blinks awake, and listens as Torvar finishes pissing in the chamber pot. </p>
<p>The nord catches Dove’s sleepy gaze and cracks a smile. “Oh, didn’t mean to wake you,” he stage whispers, “Used to bunking with folks who sleep like the dead. Bad dreams?” </p>
<p>Dove swings his legs over the side of his bed and nods, exhausted. He’s starting to reach the end of his rope with it all, really. He feels as if he hasn’t actually slept since arriving in Skyrim. </p>
<p>Torvar is right, the rest of the companions are still sleeping like the dead. This is the second time he’s awoken from fitful sleep tonight, and he’s just about ready to give up on getting any shut-eye before dawn. Torvar finishes his business and taps the bucket with his foot, offering it up to Dove. </p>
<p>“Need a go?” He offers. </p>
<p>Dove nods to Torvar, who grins, “Good, you can be the one to take it out then and dump it.” Dove stares at the wall, mind buzzing like static between his ears, as his shield brother returns to his cot and doesn’t snap back to reality until Torvar is snoring. </p>
<p>He gets up, relieving himself and taking the pot in both hands up the stairs to the hall. He goes out the back door, deciding to dump it into the bushes rather than take a guess at the social etiquette of human waste disposal in Skyrim. </p>
<p>The cool night air is like a weight lifted off his chest. He almost feels as if he’ll float into the night sky, but something keeps his feet tied to the earth. His hands are rather shaky as he dumps the pot over the banister of the pavilion, and he decides to sit down a moment to take a breath before going back inside. </p>
<p>Crouching down to the floor, curling himself into the corner between the wall and the fence, he rests his head on his chin and closes his eyes. The breeze is soothing, smelling faintly of grain and nirnroot. Crickets chirp and frogs sing in the grass and greens surrounding him, no fear from predators within these walls. </p>
<p>Well, that would not be entirely true. Dove’s eyes snap open when he hears voices, and he tucks himself into the corner even smaller, however possible. </p>
<p>“-is Aela?” A man’s voice asks. Dove recognizes it, but he can’t be sure. </p>
<p>“Out.” Skjor’s voice replies, tersely. The Dragonborn can definitely recognize <i>that<i> tone of voice. </i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The first man, who Dove is reasonably certain is Kodlak, sighs. “It does not befit a man of honor to act with secrecy and deception.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’ve not lied,” Skjor denies fiercely, “I’ve kept no secrets from you. There is nothing wrong with what we’re doing. It is you who insists we keep the gift a secret from the others.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“And we agree on that,” Kodlak insists, “That it would be too dangerous.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Skjor scoffs but does not disagree. There’s a long moment of silence and then, bitterly, Skjor taunts, “The new blood knows. Farkas spoke to me of their proving- they were attacked by the Silver Hand.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove wants to be angry at Skjor for telling Kodlak, because Farkas had clearly been trying to keep that a secret, but he supposes Kodlak had to find out one way or another. It’s in his journals, after all. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I see.” Kodlak ponders that for a long moment. “Tell me the truth then. Where is Aela?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Skjor responds with a petty tone of pride, “We hunted. Many Silver Hands are dead by our teeth. Aela sleeps in the underforge, well worn by the victorious hunt tonight.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“She has not turned back then,” Kodlak accuses, “She no longer controls her wolf, her wolf controls her.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“There is no power struggle in those of us who have accepted our gift. I, and Aela too, am one with the wolf. We listen to it, and it listens to us. Our wants and needs are the same. ” Skjor’s voice is familiar as he speaks, as if talking about a dear friend. A stark contrast to the Harbinger’s thinly veiled shame and hatred. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“It is not natural,” Kodlak says, as if it is final, “The call of the blood will only drive us to madness. It is a burden we must bear.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Skjor seethes, biting his tongue. “You have your worship, and I have mine,” the warrior tells Kodlak, choosing his words carefully, “I do not ask you to like it, only if you can refrain from insulting it, as I refrain from insulting yours.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Daedra worship is outlawed in all the nine holds,” The harbinger shout-whispers, “Were the people of Whiterun who idolize the companions to know of our dark secret, it would not just be the Silver Hands nipping at our heels.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Let. Them. Come.” Skjor declares, proudly, “I will never be ashamed of our power. It is a gift.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Kodlak sighs. Dove almost thinks they’re done talking for the moment, before he hears the Harbinger speak very softly, barely audible under the sounds of the crickets and the trees, rustling in the breeze. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Tradition is very important to me, son.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Skjor accepts that with a beat of silence. “To me as well. I don’t think we see the same tradition at play here.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Kodlak doesn’t argue that point either. “If you want to lead the pack when I’m gone, you have to see farther, look closer.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well which is it?” Skjor asks with a snort, “Look farther or closer?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Come on, boy,” Kodlak chides, “You know what I meant…” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“You speak in riddles sometimes.” Skjor admits, and Dove can picture the pained expression on his face.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I don’t mean to confuse you,” Kodlak replies, defeated, but Skjor shakes his head, “It’s not confusing. Just frustrating.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>A moment, something Dove can’t quite dissect passes between the two nords. “You are a strong warrior, Skjor. Your heart is fiery and that serves you well in battle.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Thank you, Harbinger,” Skjor is obliged to reply.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“But even the bravest of men consider their actions,” Kodlak continues, falling back to his persecutory tone, “I want you to survive long enough to take the mantle.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove’s gut drops a little, but Skjor just chuckles darkly. “Don’t worry about me,” he scoffs, and the two depart in their separate ways. The light of the mead hall as Kodlak opens the door nearly reveals him in his corner, but neither warrior seems to notice him, tucked away. Dove hears the grinding of stone softly, and knows that Skjor has returned to the Underforge. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Kodlak is right. That’s what frustrates him, that Kodlak is right to be worried for Skjor. Because Dove knows that Skjor will die at the hands of Krev the Skinner, charging ahead in his wolf form, and Kodlak will have been right. Vilkas and Farkas will cure themselves of their wolf, and Hircine’s curse will be lifted. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Something about returning the companions to Ysgramor’s great vision sits like spoiled milk in Dove’s stomach. Like a breath he can’t release. After enough time has passed that he’s sure he won’t be caught, Dove stands and slips back into the hall with the chamber pot, slinking back down to the barracks. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>There’s so many things he wishes he could SAY to these people with whom he’s now sharing a life, but he must bite his tongue. They would have no reason to trust him yet, even if they could understand. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He washes his hands with the pump in the bathing room, the water chilling him to his very bone. He takes the blanket from his cot and goes upstairs to find a chair by the cooling hearth, and his notebook. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Wrapped up in his blanket, Dove tries to get all his thoughts down on the page before he explodes from all it is that he cannot say. His annotated account of all that has happened to him since waking in that damn carriage to Helgen is messy and impossible to follow, interrupting itself to go on long tangents and skipping whole parts where his memory fogs, but it’s cathartic. He’s nearly finished when Tilma comes down in the morning to start the fire. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Good morning, dear,” She says fondly, “Couldn’t sleep last night?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He shakes his head no, closing his book quickly. He’s sure he’s not ready for anyone else to read it yet. Dove watches her putter around building a fire before getting up to go get dressed before the others wake up too. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>None of the other whelps wake as he tucks his sleeping clothes under his blanket and dons his armor, gliding a hand over his bow before grasping it firmly. By the time he’s suited up and leaving his quarters he runs into Farkas and Vilkas in the hallway, ascending the stairs too. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas seems much more awake than his brother, waving and greeting Dove with an energetic, “Morning, then. You’re up early.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods and waves back to Vilkas too, who just glares at the two of them. Resisting his wolf must truly take a toll on him, he looks haggard and worn in the morning compared to Farkas standing right next to him. The lines of his face cut deeper, his eyes gaunt and pupils flickering minutely, agitated and exhausted. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Farkas is not struggling. “Hope Tilma’s started breakfast,” he comments idly, “I could eat a horse.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Tilma HAS started breakfast already, the smell of fresh baked bread filling the hall. Vilkas cracks open a large ledger at his table in the corner and begins to write, absentmindedly accepting a mug of spiced mead from his brother as Farkas takes a seat beside him. Once the bread is out of the ovens, Tilma lays out the food on the large table and Farkas rises to get himself and his brother plates. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The hall fills with warriors, Torvar and Athis the last to climb the steps and take a seat at the table. Njada blows past him in a hurry out the doors after talking to Vilkas, saying something about Markarth and a kidnapping, and the tired wolf watches her go before fixing an eye on Dove. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Are you ready for work?” He asks, to which Dove nods, getting to his feet. “Good,” he beckons the dragonborn over with a wave, “Windhelm’s got bandit problems.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“What?” Athis interrupts, calling over from his seat at the table, “Windhelm? by himself? Azura’s mercy, he can’t speak cyrodilic!”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “We’ve three contracts out right now. I am giving the whelp the Windhelm contract because of his level of combat experience.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well what are the other two then?” Athis says, pushing back his chair and walking towards Vilkas’s table to peer into the ledger. Vilkas slumps back to give the dunmer an unobstructed view, rolling his eyes.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Escaped criminal or family heirloom.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Those don’t sound so bad,” Athis argues, “escaped criminals are always easy.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas shakes his head, “mages, on both counts.” He turns back to Dove, “Have you ever fought a mage, whelp?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove shakes his head, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. To get set on fire or electrocuted… he can’t even imagine how you fight that, the thought strikes him with a sudden terror. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Thought not. You’re going to Windhelm.” Vilkas marks something off on his ledger with an air of finality.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Athis’s face twists in anger. “Not by himself he’s not, if you want to ever see him again.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas throws his hands down in frustration, “If you feel so strongly about your brother’s safety, go with him yourself!” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The dunmer’s expression curdles. “I said I’d never set foot that far east again,” he says, his voice deadly serious, “and I don’t go back on my word, nord.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well then enough bellyaching if you don’t have the stones to do anything about it,” the wolf shouts back, getting angrily to his feet. Dove takes a few nervous steps back. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why you-” in a burst of rage, Athis reaches forward towards Vilkas to grab his collar. The wolf bats his hands away and steps into his face, things move so fast that Dove isn’t even sure who gets the first punch in. There’s shouts as the companions all get up from their seats to watch, somewhere between amused and annoyed. Dove seems to be the only person who’s scared. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas throws his full weight behind punches like he’s trying to break Athis’s bones, and Athis pummels with fury and the explicit intent of causing injury. It all happens so fast that his heart starts beating at three times speed, adrenaline rushing his system. Dove can’t tear his eyes away, not sure what he’s supposed to do when the two warriors are doing their best to KILL each other right in front of him, and no one else is intervening. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Don’t drop your damn hands!” Torvar scolds, sounding quite tickled with the way his morning was turning out. Athis, who had dropped his hands, curses furiously in dunmeris instead of listening. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vilkas gets Athis right in the jaw and Athis nearly goes down, stumbling backwards as if blinking on the edge of consciousness. Even as he lunges forward, unswayed, Dove wants to beg for them to stop and ask the fellow dunmer if he was okay. That could have very easily given him a concussion! He could be injured for months! Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He nearly jumps out of his skin as a hand rests at the small of his back. Aela and Skjor had entered the hall, sometime when he was entirely distracted, and the huntress had placed a hand on him to attract his attention. She may have even said his name, he doubts he would have heard her over the roaring of his blood. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I'll accompany you on the road, young pup,” She tells him over the shouts and commotion, “I’ve my own business in Windhelm.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“THERE, DISPUTE SETTLED.” Skjor bellows, startling Vilkas and Athis away from each other. The wolf takes the opportunity to shove Athis away from himself, and the dunmer does not retaliate beyond more dunmeris swears (words that only Dove can understand, that reference Vilkas’s manhood and it’s relative size and capability). “NOW EAT YOUR BREAKFAST FOR THE LOVE OF MARA,” The old warrior demands. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Just like that, the hall falls back into its regular motions. It’s Torvar who walks over and scoops Athis off the floor, the dunmer slack against his shoulder in a truly concerning way. Dove rushes to help Torvar as he unceremoniously dumps the elf into a chair, just as Tilma approaches with a large red vial. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Better have him drink this while he’s still fresh, dearie,” Tilma titters, “Don’t want any of it to set. Vilkas is quite the young warrior.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove glances around to find the wolf, who had certainly taken some bruises himself, but he’s nowhere to be found at a glance. Perhaps he left to lick his wounds somewhere else. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Torvar accepts the potion and coaxes Athis into opening his mouth with a hand on his jaw, “Nah, I wouldn’t worry about him,” the nord chuckles, “He’d be too stupid to rub two sticks together by now if he didn’t take well to it.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>As Dove tries to piece together what they’re saying, Athis’s skin starts to glow with restoration magic. Dove remembers Farkas, in the cave, the way his skin had sewn back together, and he’s amazed still to see the way bruises and tender skin instantly fades to a healthy shade of blue. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Athis blinks, and his expression focuses with sudden clarity. “Oh gods,” he curses, voice sounding clear and entirely cognizant, “That tastes awful. What elixir is this?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Tilma smiles at him, taking the bottle from Torvar’s hands. “A new recipe I’m trying, with ash hopper jelly. Arcadia just got an import from Solsthiem. How do you feel?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove would also like to know the answer to that question. Much like Farkas before, Athis stretches his arms all the way to the ceiling and sighs. “Perfectly normal, much better, actually. Can’t feel anything hurting still at all. Was it much more expensive?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Nothing that cannot be expensed for the health and safety of our honorable Companions,” Tilma reassures with a twinkle in her eye. Torvar laughs and claps a hand on Athis’s shoulder, “You heard the woman. We’re heroes! Can’t have us falling off our horses during the epic ballads.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“A horse? And with what gold?” Athis accuses, his sense of humor returning to him, “All your septims are in a passionate love affair with Hulda’s pockets.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove feels the adrenaline of the fight slip away. He supposes he’ll have to get used to the idea that injuries don’t carry so much weight in a world like this. Sure, he’s been healing himself instantly for over a week now, but he’s already so disconnected from his physical body he hadn’t put much thought into it. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The dragonborn looks around at all of the companions, none of whom show any remote interest in whether or not Athis is alright. Not out of malice, but perhaps, he thinks, out of confidence? The idea still doesn’t quite sit right with him. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“It’s going to be cold in Windhelm,” Ria tells him, leaning down over the banister as Athis and Torvar wander off. Dove finds his way back to reality to turn to her and pay attention, “Colder then nords will even admit to you. You don’t have a travelling cloak, do you?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove sighs and shakes his head. Of course he’ll have to deal with snow at some point. It’s fucking Skyrim.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Ria finds him a cloak in the lost and found once more. Once his bag is packed with all the necessities and he’s counted his arrows, he does his best to keep up with Aela’s long and confident strides all the way down the road from Whiterun and towards the mountains in the distance. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>After something like half an hour of walking, they finally begin to near the landmark that had loomed in the distance until that point. Valtheim towers is larger than it ever seemed in game and far more imposing, at least six stories tall and teetering over the edge of the ravine below. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela does not seem even a little bit worried, her large gait unfettered as Dove tries his best not to lag behind. Her bow sits in her hand casually, as if it were an extension of her body and not a weight she was carrying. Dove, whose weapon arm is already beginning to get very tired, tries his best not to be jealous of her strength. He’s learning. He can manage on his own.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Two armored bandits are stationed outside the tower, an elf sat in a wooden chair tending to their fire as a pot of something boils, a disinterested looking woman who rolls her eyes as she sees them approach.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Mercenaries, ay?” She calls out to them in greeting, “Right, this here is a toll road. 200 gold and you’re free to pass.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela doesn’t stop walking, not even paying the woman a glance until she’s stepped right in front of her, stopping her from moving forward. The huntress finally looks down on the breton, unamused. Dove stands at her side, curiously watching. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Do you know who it is that you speak to?” Aela demands, “We are Companions of Jorrvaskr on an honorable quest. You are lucky our destination is important, and that I’ve not ample free time to demonstrate some respect to you and all your brothers-in-arms.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Why you-” The breton starts but the elf shushes her, looking horrified. “They’re companions, Briga!” He scolds, clearly fucking terrified. She sobers when she sees his palpable fear, making a gesture for them to go before crossing her arms and scowling.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The bandits pacified, Aela walks away with her head held high. Dove tries to follow with even half the dignity and presence. One day that will have to be him, he thinks, talking Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tuluis into a peace meeting at High Hrothgar. Maybe Aela will come with him if he asks, her companionship a seal of officiality, of his status. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Maybe, he wonders, the companions will have found him out by then and will want nothing to do with his cowardly self. He likes entertaining that thought a lot less. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>-- </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Unsurprisingly, Eastmarch is fucking cold. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He’d taken Farkas’s advice on rations and packed himself bread, cheese wrapped in wax paper and dried meats, and some of the candied fruits that Helga had snuck him with a mischievous smile. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The icewind off the water tears through a man, billowing under his cloak no matter how tight he pulls it around himself and chilling him straight to the bone. As the falling snow hardens like ice and whips instead into tornados around him, his aching legs and feet tense and shiver, exacerbating the challenge of their journey. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>They had stopped for a handful of minutes just once, at the top of the hills in the Rift before taking the long road down to Windhelm, and though his muscles had already begun to tire seeing the city in the distance had emboldened him to carry on. As the temperatures plummeted however, it was becoming an internal battle with himself to keep from giving up.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela seems completely unbothered. That at the very least was inspiring enough embarrassment in him to keep his mouth shut on the matter. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He and Aela must have approached the front gate at a prime hour because the roads soon become cluttered with horse and oxen drawn wagons, man-pulled wheelbarrows and busyfolk of all sorts coming and going from the capital. Just after midday, the sun half a sky from where it had been when Dove had seen it first this morning. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>It is far too busy to notice any shouting or cutscenes, and though Dove keeps an eye out for any dunmer being assaulted his eyes get lost in the sea of similarly toned nords and furs. He abandons his search before he risks losing Aela in the square, feeling incredibly out of place in the unapproachable, icy city. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Huddled in his cloak, the warmth of candlehearth hall fails to penetrate his thoroughly frozen exterior until the heavy oaken door swings shut behind him and he dares to release his grip on the furs he was clutching to his chest. The warmth of the hall sweeps under his cloak and forces him to release a tight breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela turns to check back on Dove, a habit he hoped she would not develop. Her back turned from the counter, it is Dove who the innkeeper locks eyes with and the face of aggravation is immediate. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“This isn’t the Grey Quarter,” she calls out to him, before he can even find the voice to speak (ironically, considering he had none). Aela turns around in confusion and approaches the counter as normal with Dove in toe. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“We are the Companions of Jorrvaskr, and we have business to conduct in the region,” Aela declares. Dove defaults to a stony, serious expression, aware that he is the obstacle to being treated with respect in this scenario. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The barkeep - Ilda? Elda? - seems genuinely taken aback. “You must be Aela the Huntress then! This then is your, uhm,” She looks to Dove as if he had sprouted a second head, “Your shield brother then?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes,” Aela replies firmly, “he’s a great hunter and trusted confidant. We’ve travelled a long way to your city to give assistance how we can.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Elda nods her head courteously, “Yes well… thank you…” She stammers for a suitable response, “We would of course be honored to house the legendary Aela the Huntress, but we only have one room though you see… I’m sure there's rooms in the grey quarter…” she trails off, leaving the “for your dunmer friend” implied. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I find you repulsive and we’ll share, thank you,” Aela replied, unflinchingly. Dove’s stony expression falters slightly as he holds back a surprised laugh. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Ah,” Elda squeaks, “…. ok…. well here is your key and, uhm, and food will be delivered at supper time. Complementary for all guests you see, I suppose I can just mark that down as, uhm, two meals then.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Your service and demeanor have been terrible and I will despise using your accommodations,” Aela informs the poor woman, and Dove can see the predatory smile curling around her lip from toying with her prey. Dove takes the key from the counter, pridefully walking towards the room he knows is theirs already, ignoring Elda’s faltering “F-first room on the left..” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela drops her bag on the floor and reaches up to the sky to stretch her back. Dove collapses onto the wooden chair with a sigh of relief. He finishes the rest of his rations, slowly lifting scraps of cheese and bread to his mouth with leadened arms while Aela strips her travelling cloak and the outer shell of her armor, beginning a series of stretches, her eyes closed serenely in meditation. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He watches her, intrigued, and his heart skips a beat as her muscles ripple beneath her skin for a moment, almost as if her skin was shifting. In the light of the oil lantern it almost seems like she stretches up taller, her fingers and nails a little longer, but Dove could also just be tired. She does not transform, at the very least, but when she is done her eyes are deadly focused and her expression is hungry, fierce.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I will be back before they bring supper, I would suggest you be too. There will not be another chance at a hot meal until we return to Jorrvaskr, otherwise.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods and gives her a vague hand gesture of understanding. Aela leaves her cloak, armor and bag on the floor, closing the door behind her. She’s going hunting for the Silver Hand then, Dove realizes, and she won’t be using human weapons to do it.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela has long vanished by the time he pulls himself out of the chair and leaves after her, wearing her thinner cloak underneath his own. He does not bother with the contents of his rucksack, taking only his quiver, bow and the contents of his hip satchel. Locking the door behind him, he leaves out the side of the Inn and heads for the bandits of Lost Knife Hideout</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Two dead bodies mark the entrance to Lost Knife Hideout, once bobbing lifelessly in the water below and the other sprawled in the underbrush, attracting flies. They’re both dressed like bandits, curiously, and Dove creeps along the river stream into the cave entrance as quietly as he can.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He ducks away from the mouth of the cave as soon as possible, wary of casting a strong silhouette against the afternoon sun. In the dark shadows he is practically invisible to any fool looking towards the light, and he is able to approach close enough to the dying campfire just inside to hear two voices speaking.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“We've cleared out the criminals, we found the last ones hiding deeper in the cave. They’re all slaughtered.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“The men stationed at Driftshade will send us a party of soldiers once they’ve received our letter. We should send our recruits to scout the surrounding area tomorrow, so that we might be prepared for their arrival. Perhaps if we’re lucky, we’ll catch one of the beasts by surprise.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“If by the grace of Ysgramor we may be so lucky indeed. Those wretched daedra-worshippers think that they can run around these woods as monsters, we’ll show them steel and silver in return.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“How many do we number? Do we have the cages prepared?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Only the ten of us now, Pilonus and Yesha were slain by the bandits.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Their bodies shall be burned then, and returned to their ancestors. The cages?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I will have them assembled.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Best see to it that you do.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove waits with baited breath for the sound of retreating footsteps to recede before raising his bow, ever so slowly, to point towards the captain of this group of Silver Hands. His arrow connects, and the chief spins around in confusion in time for a second arrow to embed itself in his chest. Dove doesn’t move until several long moments after the body has hit the floor with a thud, cautiously approaching only once he was certain he had not attracted unwanted attention. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>10 Silver Hands to kill then, one down, nine to go. I can do this, he thinks to himself. Rifling through the corpse’s pockets, he finds a coin purse and a hip satchel containing a vial of thick, viscous poison. This could be useful. This could be very useful indeed.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The Silver Hand walks back across the land bridge over the large cave lake below, cursing to himself under his breath. The cages, how are they going to get that damn sabre cat out of there to make room for werewolves. He hears something splash in the water below him, stopping him in his tracks. A surviving bandit maybe? He walks towards the wooden railing and peaks over, squinting and looking for any sign of movement. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>All in one second, he’s pierced in the back by shooting pain and his legs lock up, arms turn to stone, his whole body freezes. His weight balanced poorly, he tumbles over the railing as his mind races, trying to remember how to move his mouth to scream. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Balgus is glad Dyrn agreed to help him look around the bandit chief’s quarters, packed to the brim with barrels and chests, even if he had put up a fight about it at first, the crazy fool. Dyrn hears something in the passage outside and ducks out of the room to look, paranoid after losing two men in one day which Balgus simply scoffs at. No true warrior of Ysgramor, that one. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He’s so ready to hear Dyrn call out that it's nothing he nearly jumps when he hears a violent choking noise instead. Balgus immediately readies his weapon and takes cover beside the door. He presses his back up against the wall, steadying his breathing, ready to jump whoever charges into the room. The only noise he can hear is the faint rushing of water in the distance. A bead of sweat rolls down Balgus’s neck. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Greatsword at the ready, Balgus turns through the doorway and charges blindly with the roar of a battlecry. Dyrn lays collapsed on the ground, eyes bulging out of his head and moving wildly, body locked in paralysis. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The battlefury only hits his bloodstream for a moment before Balgus feels an arrow strike his side from behind, and instantly he can feel the poison take effect. He attempts to take a step and steady himself but only succeeds to unbalance and topple over. His eyes shoot open as soon as he hits the ground, mind racing wildly inside his prison of a body. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He can hear his attacker shuffling around, and Dyrn begins to whimper desperately. “Krosis” Balgus hears spoken in a young man’s voice, words that make no sense to him and sound like gibberish, and moments later a steel dagger is pressed to his throat and his vision whites out in pain. It is that last thing he ever hears. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Tjern lounges pridefully on his stool against the bar, tipping his head back to drain another bottle of the bandit’s wine. He tosses the empty bottle once more at the decrepit stone walls of this hovel, his booming laugh echoing off the walls. His expression quickly morphs into anger once more, when the thought of them crosses his mind. The Companions. The idea itself brings bile to his throat. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He can no longer drink in the city taverns, hasn’t been able to since joining the order. When he hears the bards sing of their tales of bravery and glory he wants to run someone through with his sword, wants to strangle the bard’s lie infested throat, wants to scream of their crimes against the ancestors for all the world to hear. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>But he knows he must hold his tongue, a task that is so painful at times it leaves the impression of a wound in his throat, soothed only by battle-earned bottles such as these. He uncorks the last bottle viciously. The Companions may not care for Ysgramor, but the Silver Hand cares. They care for his reputation, for his honor, which they - which Tjern - will not allow the Companions to tarnish with their Daedric perversions. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>When all the Companions are dead, he tells himself, they will return Ysgramor’s name to glory. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He sees a shadow flicker on the ground outside of the bar room, and gets very suddenly and unsteadily to his feet. Tjern stalks out to the hallway but sees nothing amiss aside from his doubled vision. Perhaps he had indulged in one too many a bottle. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He feels as if he sees a shadow when he turns back to the room but as he blinks his eyes it vanishes. He makes the decision to finish his bottle and sleep, before he toppled over where he stood. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He stumbles back to the bar and picks back up the wine - was it there where he left it? something feels off - and finishes it as fast as he can. The dizziness shoots straight to his toes and, oddly enough, locks them in place. There follows his legs, then his torso, his arms, and finally his head. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Attempting to jerk away only causes him to topple over onto his back. From behind the bar, he sees the shadow stand up. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Damn it all to oblivion.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vornar splits from the group huddled around the cages to go find the chief, a burning question on his lips. He’s lost in thought, but not nearly enough to miss the elf creeping down the middle of the hallway who looks just as startled to see Vornar as Vornar is to see him. After the moment of shock passes between him Vornar is the swifter to draw his sword. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>His cry of “Intruder!” is nearly cut short as the elf notches an arrow and lets it fly, but Vornar lifts his shield in time to deflect the projectile before it strikes him. “Intruder!” He shouts again behind him only for the elf to notch again at rapid speed, aiming for his leg and finding purchase deep into his shin. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vornar shouts in pain, but he is a true son of Ysgramor and charges the conniving elf regardless, sword raised above his head. “Ko’los fii’dost?” demands the elf to himself in a language that sounds like complete gibberish, firing a third arrow which Vornar parries out of the way with his sword, which he swings back up towards the elf himself who just barely manages to dance out of the way, his cloak tearing a large gash. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vornar’s momentum is unstoppable and he arches his sword again just as the elf raises his arm to notch another arrow. He can feel his blow cut through armor and flesh alike and the elf cries out in pain as he trips over his only feet stumbling away from the warrior. Vornar charges recklessly to slash again only for the elf to duck and his sword shatter against the force of him hitting the rock wall behind. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Vornar tosses the cheap blade down in fury with his shield and charges the stumbling, weakened elf with his fists. The elf had dropped his bow, clutching his bleeding side desperately, and Vornar intended to crush him like a bug. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The warrior grabs for the elf’s head to smash into his knee but the elf drops to the floor suddenly and Vornar loses grip of him, yanked off balance. The elf springs back up with one of Vornar’s legs lifted over his shoulder, instantly sending Vornar straight into the ground, stealing all the air from his lungs with which he would shout once more for his comrade’s aide. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The elf takes a dagger from his belt and plunges it directly into Vornar’s exposed chest and he finds his voice just to roar with agony, all his muscles flexing and contracting from the pain, expelling the cry of fury with great force. “Kos nahlot, kos nahlot, krosis, pogaas’sis,” The elf begs him, plunging the dagger deeper. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>His anger leaves him in waves, ebbing out of him very suddenly and taking the rest of his energy with it. He tries to say something, anything, as white overcomes his vision, but it comes out as a soft gurgle, and then he cannot muster the will to do even that.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Kogaan hi,” is the last thing Vornar hears before everything is quiet.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The last four Silver Hands might have words on how it felt to be torn to bloody ribbons by an enraged, starved, bloodthirsty sabercat. They would not be pleasant words to hear.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove returns to Windhelm before the sun has set, just barely. The guards outside the wall hurry him along, calling out, “Come on elf, the gates are closing,” and once he’s through to the city square he hurries past the crowds of nords and dunmer making their way to the Inn or to their homes. Candlehearth hall is bustling and he doesn’t linger at the bar while Elda finishes talking to a patron.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>When he opens the door to the room he expects to see Aela, but he does not expect to see Aela face first on the bed, still in her boots, hair splayed. Her skin glows with sweat and her body has practically melted into the covers, as fast asleep as she is. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove sets his bow and quiver down on the chair where his pack sits, and dumps his loot on the floor next to it. Approaching softly, he calls out to her, “Aela?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The Huntress stirs but does not wake. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove is unsure as to what to do but does not have a moment to decide before there is a knock at the door. He opens it to see Susanna, the serving girl, holding two plates of food on one arm.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Would you mind?” She asks harriedly, and Dove quickly accepts the food with a thankful nod, letting her close the door behind him. Two strips of steak, with aromatic leeks and some sort of buttery bread roll. Dove’s stomach protests fiercely to the lack of proper meals today, and he is overcome suddenly with just how hungry he is. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove sets the plates down on the table, and tries once more to wake Aela. “Dinners here,” he calls out to her, and again she simply stirs deeper into sleep. He accepts this as a valid answer, collapsing in the chair eagerly and digging into his first hot meal of the day. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>As the perfectly cooked steak melts in his mouth (Nils, he thinks to himself, you crazy bastard, you’ve done it again), Dove feels the adrenaline of several near death experiences leech out of his body with the last remnants of frost. The food warms him to his bones, smoothing out the tension from fighting for his life and filling his belly pleasantly. He’d left with a giddy sort of tiredness, a satisfying tiredness. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He wonders to himself morbidly as he eats if perhaps the steak isn’t raw enough for Aela’s tastes. In that case, he wonders, if her afternoon of hunting had already left her full. A line of thought best left unexplored for now, he decides.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He covers Aela’s plate with a tablecloth and sets it aside for her in the morning, tugging the blankets out from underneath her unconscious body to spread them out over her instead (he considers removing her boots but quickly decides against it). Once she’s set, he rolls out his bedroll from his pack and tries to read one of the books from the shelf in the corner of their room before sleep claims him like a brick to the head. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He sleeps mildly uncomfortably on the floor, his bedroll a little funky smelling and the sounds of the lively inn waking him up periodically throughout the night before he can fall into a dreamstate. The last time he closes his eyes is as Luaffyn plays her final song of the night, and the next time he opens them the sun is streaming in through the window and Aela is eating her cold steak with a bregruding look on her face. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Good morning. Your hunt was successful?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove sits up in his bedroll, the travelling cloaks he’d been sleeping under falling off him as he stretched up to the sky. After an extraordinary satisfying stretch, he nods pleasantly. Standing up, he digs his journal out of his rucksack and his quill, taking the seat opposite Aela as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“When I got there, the bandits had already been cleared out,” He writes on a blank page, “The Silver Hand had secured the cave as an outpost. The leader said something about being stationed at Driftshade. They’re all dead.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Once he has finished writing Aela wipes her hands and takes the journal from him with a curious face. For a moment he is paralyzed with fear that she wound start turning the pages and see his writing, about who he really was and everything he knew, but she passes the book back to him after committing his message to memory and begins to roll the name Driftshade around her tongue, as if trying to remember the taste. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“This is good news,” She decides ultimately, “The bandits are dead and there are less Silver Hands alive in skyrim. That is always to be celebrated. But you must keep this a secret,” She tells him sternly, “And you are not to willingly hunt the Silver Hand on your own. This was a fortunate accident, one you should not attempt to recreate.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove nods, understanding. He makes a gesture towards his mouth, and shrugs his shoulders in good humor.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I suppose your lips are already sealed,” Aela remarks, smiling at him with her teeth. Though Dove still feels pinned by a predator’s gaze, it does not inspire fear in him. If anything, he is lighter under Aela’s gaze, confidence rising to his cheeks.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela puts her empty plate on the windowsill with Dove’s from the night before. “We should get out of here before we have to pay that awful woman anymore of our hard earned money,” she declares, and Dove vibrates with anticipation. Every fiber of his being wants to return to Jorrvaskr with an intensity he cannot name, but he can hardly deny exists. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He removes the empty glass bottled from his hip satchel and replaces them with healing potions from his bag, contributing 10 gold from his coinpurse to the pile that Aela is counting out on the table. He changes from his sleep clothes to the clothes he wears under his scaled armor, doing up the last straps as Aela returns to the room after paying at the front desk. He rolls his bedroll and ties it up with his rucksack, turning around to see Aela examining the gash in the front of her travelling cloak. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove makes an apologetic noise, having completely forgot that he borrowed her cloak without asking and damaged it. She doesn’t acknowledge him, simply swinging the cloak around and donning it regardless. “Are you ready to go?” She asks, to which he nods fervently and slings his own torn cloak over himself. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“For Jorrvaskr then. May the winds carry us safely home.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>As two companions leave through the front gates of Windhelm in the direction of their mead hall, a boat arrives at the Windhelm docks. Captained by Gjalund Salt-Sage, who wears a misty-eyed and strange expression on his face, an expression shared by each and every member of his crew. As the vessel, the Northern Maiden, is secured, two men in strange masks step onto the docks. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>--</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove is singing the praises of every god he can think of that a carriage had been loitering outside Windhelm, looking for passengers to make the trip back to Whiterun. His legs are surely thanking him, and they make good time up the hills and through the rift to Whiterun. The air begins to warm the farther they get from Windhelm, and the other passengers in the carriage (a fisherman and his young daughter) make the ride entertaining to say the least. The father pulls out his lute as they approach the Throat of the World from the east, to keep his daughter from pestering Aela with anymore questions, and the song about a troll and a skeever are a smash hit.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Walking up to the gates of Whiterun he can’t help but feel like he’s almost home, the determination powering him through the climb. They wave goodbye to the father and daughter as they climb the steps to the cloud district, and finally the steps to Jorrvaskr itself. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Skjor turns to face the door as the two of them enter the hall, approaching with a hand raised in greeting. “You’re back,” he says to the both of them, dryly “You survived the journey, then.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Oh yes, the quest was quite treacherous, I’m sure we could have hardly survived without the thought of your returning welcome to keep us going,” Aela replies sarcastically, and Skjor rolls his eyes with a hint of a smile. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Aela claps her hand strong down on his shoulder, “This whelp killed more than just his bandits, but I’ll speak to you of that later. For now, we are owed payment.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Skjor brings two sacks of gold from the table with the open ledger, Aela’s only slightly heftier than his own. Aela and Skjor begin discussing the comings and goings of the other companions in the last two days and Dove takes the opportunity to slip away. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>There is no one else in the barracks of Jorrvaskr so he takes his time counting out his reward of another 300 gold. He’s nearly 900 gold now (nearly enough to buy a horse, he thinks to himself, though he has no idea how to ride a horse let alone care for one) and enough silver necklaces, rings and other trinkets he’d looted from the Silver Hand to make another small fortune if he bartered correctly. For now though, he put all the loot and the contents of his bag away under his cot with his bow and quiver, returning to the mead hall to have a late breakfast. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>As usual there is a platter of breads and fruits sitting on the long table, and he takes a plateful to his usual spot by the fire to enjoy. Aela and Skjor are nowhere to be seen, the rest most likely having just left on contracts or out in the yard training. Dove enjoys the peaceful silence as he eats his full of sweet pastries and apples. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>The door to the basement opens again after some time and Dove is surprised to see Kodlak himself climbing the steps up to the hall, surveying the empty room and spotting Dove with an equal amount of surprise. “Ah, our newest companion. Do you have a moment to spare?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove tenses, unsure what this could be, but he nods regardless.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Would you bring this letter to the Jarl’s steward in Dragonsreach for me?” Kodlak hands Dove a sealed envelope, “It is simply a matter of compensation.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove accepts the letter gingerly and nods, surprised he is not in trouble to some degree, getting up from his chair and adjusting his scaled armor. Kodlak smiles and walks away humbly, leaving Dove a fair bit conflicted and anxious. He heads out the door quickly, motivated to complete the task assigned to him rather than analyse his own feelings. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>A guard opens the doors to Dragonsreach as he approaches but, as it is nearly midday, he is not the only citizen calling for the Jarl's attention. He waits in the entry hall with an elven woman as some rich looking man demands an audience over some issue with his properties. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He notices Farengar climb down the steps and the guards open the door for the court wizard to leave, nose buried deep in a book. Dove shifts back and forth on his sore feet and sighs, mumbling to himself, “this wait is gonna be forever.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Farengar freezes in place and whips his head around frantically, eyes locking onto Dove in absolute bafflement. “What did you just say?” The court wizard demands of him, incredibly unsubtly, “Say that again, right now!” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Every inhabitant of the entry hall turns their eyes to him, as Dove stands there, petrified. “....This wait is gonna be forever?” He says again, his voice several octaves higher.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Daar saraan los bokos mahfaeraak,” Farengar says back to him perfectly accented, hitting Dove like a brick to the face. Obviously he is speaking a different language, but Dove hears the words as if they were english, the same way he had with Bo Drem, his name, Dove. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Say it again!” Farengar demands of him again, and Dove repeats himself diligently, and just the same Farengar echoes back, “Daar saraan los bokos mahfaeraak! As in Fin Unslaad Saraan? The Eternal Wait?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove must agree that the court wizard had just said “The Eternal Wait” twice, once in not-english and once in english, so he nods. Then for good measure, he says, “Yes, that’s what I said.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Farengar on his part seems speechless. “You just spoke DRAGON.” He declares, at the top of his voice, for all of Dragonsreach to hear, “YOU'RE SPEAKING DRAGON. YOU’RE ACTUALLY SPEAKING DRAGON! BY THE NINE WHO ARE YOU?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Dove blinks at the wizard, mouth agape, eyes swivelling to see the guards around him draw their swords and begin to approach, and wishes he knew the answer to that question himself.</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Krosis - I’m sorry<br/>Ko’los fii’dost - Where is the poison?<br/>Kos nahlot, kos nahlot, krosis, pogaas’sis - Be quiet, be quiet, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry<br/>Kogaan hi - Thank you<br/>Daar saraan los bokos mahfaeraak - This wait is going to be forever</p>
<p>if you googled what Bo Drem meant and you realized Dove was speaking dragon before I posted this you get 1 (one) cookie (it means peace bird there isn't a direct translation if you were going to comment that you get 2 (two) cookies)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the longest thing ive ever written holy shit! Thank you everyone for the nice comments :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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